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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932915">Somewhere</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17'>foolondahill17</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1950s, DCBB2020, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Prior West Side Story knowledge unnecessary, Queer Themes, West Side Story AU, as many song lyrics as I can plausibly smush into dialog, first-generation immigrant themes, spoilers for A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:00:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>54,572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1957, and an Upper West Side neighborhood in New York City is split down the middle between two rival street gangs: the Angels and the Hunters. Dean Winchester left the Hunters four months ago to work at Singer’s Auto, hoping to earn his little brother a chance at a future he never had, but he remains best friends with the gang’s leader, Benny. Castiel Nova is a member of a large, first-generation Italian American family and the younger brother of the Angels’ two leaders, Michael and Luca. Castiel, however, doesn’t want to be sucked into the city’s violence, despite his family’s pressure to join ranks with the Angels.  </p><p>When Castiel and Dean meet by chance at a neighborhood dance, they are inadvertently but undeniably attracted to each other. Their budding romance, however, not only risks being torn apart by the tension between the two gangs, but also by the ethnic and sexual prejudices of the day.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>DCBB 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Act One: Scene One, Hunters and Angels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content Warnings: show-level violence, mild nonconsensual contact (a kiss), the threat of sexual violence, mentions of past child abuse (nonexplicit), and strong language, including period-typical racial, ethnic, homophobic, and gender-based slurs. Specific warnings will be noted at the beginning of chapters. </p><p>***</p><p>Baby's first BANG!!! I am so thrilled to participate in the Dean/Cas Big Bang this year. Welcome to the Destiel retelling of West Side Story. Inspired by Jensen’s interview on “Inside of You with Michael Rosenbaum” when he said he played Tony in a high school production of the play. Hit me those high notes, Jensen: <em>Castiel/Say it loud and there's music playing/Say it soft and it's almost like praying</em>.</p><p>This would not have been possible without my tremendous beta <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrshays">Mrs. Hays</a>, who was a deft hand at catching all my homophone errors, verb tense switches, and obsessive use of commas. </p><p>And of course my beyond amazing, truly wonderful, absolutely stellar artist  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/vulfmert">Vulfmert</a>, who drew not one, not two, not three, but four (including banner) gorgeous pieces of art for my fic. Please go give her <a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fvulfmert.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F631782386942787584%2Fart-masterpost-for-somewhere-it-has-been-such-a%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR1v0LiJO6T8ZYgEhWsVAYapl80OFbHePAWh0cvWdaJ-1Kzhgvd1ShvpzNw&amp;h=AT30pHofluoIjKCMir5fMaxTnUFCfU6vlEtUhMsPihdZDhRcSF_ItGGdFBgQO7iwF3XL71lENRIPPIAkv234fOSPi5rxa-t4hmW93uOmnfsYfX5YFKwqdoZrUZWNk2xIq79m2A">Art Masterpost</a> some love. I got genuinely emotional looking at how beautifully she brought my vision to life. </p><p>I hope you all enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
 
</p><p>“Your brother know you with us?” Benny juts out his chin and pushes his basketball in a hard pass to Sam’s chest.</p><p>Sam reacts on instinct, landing the catch despite the stifled <em>oomph</em> of breath as the ball nearly slips his fingers and smashes his ribs. He scowls. “You’re not my keeper.”</p><p>“Just saying, boss,” Benny shrugs, “don’t want a pissed Dean Winchester on my ass.”</p><p>“Lighten up, my man,” Ash ambles over, tosses his hair out of his face, and slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Let the kiddo stick around.”</p><p>Ash has a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sam wrinkles his nose at the smell of smoke and ducks out from the guy’s arm. “Not a kid,” he mutters. He shoves the basketball to the pavement in a bounce-pass that lands neatly in Victor’s hands. Victor grins and rolls the ball onto his finger.</p><p>And Sam’s not a kid. The other guys are three, four, five years older than him at most. And Sam’s already nearly taller than all of them, even though, as Dean says, he’s skinnier-‘ana-beanpole. Besides, Dean was Sam’s age when he dropped out of school and founded the Hunters with Benny. Sam can look after himself. </p><p>“Aren’t you supposed to be in school, kid?” Christian says lazily over his shoulder, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette onto the pavement.</p><p>“It’s <em>summer</em>,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“Hiya, Sammy,” Ruby calls lazily from the other side of the chain-link fence that separates the basketball court from the road. She’s lounging on the hood of a parked Hornet that probably belongs to some stuffy suit in the office building across the street. A rope of smoke twirls into the air from the cigarette between her fingers. She’s wearing Audrey Hepburn-type sunglasses and a pair of those shorts that cinch at the waist and show what Dean calls, while running his tongue over his lower lip, <em>a sinful amount of leg, Sammy</em>.</p><p>It is a whole lotta leg. All white and smooth and just a little sun-slapped red ‘cause she’s been sitting out for too long. And Sam tries, he really tries, not to blush or let his voice crack or to look in any way stupid when he raises a limp hand and replies, “Hey.”</p><p>“See, he’s here for his girlfriend,” Christian leers and ruffles Sam’s hair, tugging a little too hard.</p><p>“Fuck off!” Sam snaps, ducking and swiping automatically at Christian’s wrist after years of batting off attacks from his older brother. And the other guys laugh: Benny, Ash, Victor, Chuck, and even Jo, who’s sitting cross-legged on the court and not where she’s supposed to be over on the sidewalk with the other girls – not like Sam’s gonna tell her that, though.</p><p>Blood rises in Sam’s face and he snatches a covert glance to the girls, but Ruby’s drawling lazily with Bela and Lisa about something, and the only one who seems to be paying any of them attention is Charlene – who insists on being called Charlie and always looks vaguely uncomfortable in a skirt and blouse. Sam doesn’t understand why she doesn’t just wear slacks like Jo. But, then again, Jo knows how to handle a knife even better than Dean, cusses like a sailor, and can threaten her way out of any teasing.</p><p>“Hey,” Victor nods, nudging Benny’s shoulder, “Flyboys one o’clock.” It snags the attention of the entire gang. Ash and Chuck stop mucking around with the basketball. Jo looks up from where she’d been scratching her initials into the pavement with her pocketknife. Benny’s face darkens with a scowl.</p><p>Sam turns to look, too, and sees a couple of guys wearing dark jackets and slicked-back hair emerging from the gate on the other side of the playground. Sam does what Dean taught him: looks for glints of metal that would betray knives or guns, but doesn’t see any. For now, the guys look harmless, but it doesn’t stop Sam from rolling his hands into fists and bracing his feet more firmly on the ground. Behind him, he hears shifting shoes and fabric as the other Hunters do the same. Jo clambers to her feet, cuffing her palms on her pants.</p><p>Sam’s been running with the Hunters long enough to know the Angels. He even recognizes some of their faces from here: there’s Michael Nova in the front of the pack, and, just behind him, his brother Luca. Sam suppresses a shiver down his spine; Luca Nova has always given him the creeps. Maybe it’s the steely glint in his eyes, or the particularly ruthless way Sam’s seen him aim a kick at a guy’s kidneys when he’s already down.</p><p>Sam isn’t surprised that it’s Christian who speaks first, crowing, “<em>Ciao</em>, Guidos!” There’s a nasty lilt to his voice. Sam’s heard Dean complain about Christian enough to know the guy’s always itching for a fight.</p><p>“<em>Buongiorno</em>,” Michael Nova calls back, and there’s a hungry gleam in his grin.</p><p>His voice sets off a chorus of high-pitched responses from the Hunters.</p><p>“Bon-jorno, bon-jorno,” Chuck cries.</p><p>“Chow, <em>senioritas</em>,” Victor hollers.</p><p>“<em>Olay</em>!” says Ash and turns in a ridiculous interpretation of a Flamenco dance, snapping his wrist above his head. And Sam bites his tongue before he can tell him that that’s Spanish, not Italian, but he doesn’t think the guys would even listen to him, right now.</p><p>“What do you want, Nova?” Benny demands, taking a step forward. He lands one of his giant paws on Sam’s shoulder and firmly shoves him backward. Sam’s face simmers because he knows Dean probably told Benny to keep an eye on Sam, and isn’t it ever possible to get out of his big brother’s shadow for even one minute?</p><p>“None of your business, Frenchie,” Michael says. He’s tossing a baseball from one hand to another. Another member of the gang – Sam thinks it might be Raphael – has a baseball bat over his shoulder.</p><p>“Gonna play some ah-base ah-ball?” Chuck taunts in a phony Italian accent.</p><p>“The playground’s plenty big enough for both of us,” Michael says in a level voice. He sounds completely reasonable, but Sam doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart from one Hunter to the next, seizing them up. There are six Hunters if Sam counts Jo, but seven Angels. Sam knows that’s hardly bad odds when Benny’s involved – who could out-rassle anyone, barring Dean – but it still makes him uneasy to realize they’re technically outnumbered.</p><p>

</p><p>“Not on this side of the street it ain’t,” Christian says, leaping forward so he stands abreast with Benny. Sam sees the brief glimmer of a frown cross Benny’s face as he side-eyes Christian’s new position.</p><p>The playground’s only two basketball courts, some monkey bars, and a tetherball pole, sandwiched between two buildings – a dry-cleaner on the left and a block of apartments on the right – and enclosed within a square of chain-link fencing. The Hunters are on one court. The Angels are on the other.</p><p>“Oh, I do apologize,” Michael says. And he takes another step forward. Sam can see the Angels are getting closer to the center line between the two courts, and Sam can’t help but recognize it as some kind of battle line. He’s not so sure he wants to know what happens if someone crosses it.  </p><p>Luca spreads his arms and drops his waist in an exaggerated bow. “One-thousand pardons.” Behind him, a chorus of <em>scusa, scusa, scusa,</em> and a flurry of bows come from the other Angels.</p><p>“This is Hunter turf, Nova,” Benny snaps, his face is getting red. Sam’s seen Benny mad plenty of times: it’s a little bit like a charging rhinoceros, and Sam hopes to God the Angels have enough sense to get out while they’ve still got the chance.</p><p>“You’ll get off butt-quick if you know what’s good for ya,” Ash adds wisely, still gnawing at the end of his cigarette.</p><p>“You see,” Michael says thoughtfully, ignoring Ash entirely. “We would perhaps ask you to join us, but I see that you have all left your balls at home.”</p><p>“You shut your mouth, you dirty ginzo.” It’s Jo, and her face is aflame. She’s got white knuckles around her pocketknife, the one Sam knows got shipped home along with her dad’s dog tags after Normandy.  </p><p>“I am wrong,” Michael says delightedly, “I see one of you is packing.”</p><p>“Get out of here, Jo,” Benny says roughly, and he puts his hand back again, but this time it lands on Jo’s shoulder, not Sam’s, and he shoves her back. “Bring Sammy-boy with you.”</p><p>“It’s <em>Sam</em>,” Sam hisses at the same time Jo scoffs, “No fucking way.” But Benny doesn’t hear them, because suddenly Christian and Luca are each taking a step forward, trading slurs at the top of their lungs.</p><p>Raphael swings the baseball bat off his shoulder and catches it in his palm with a resounding <em>smack</em>.</p><p>The tension in the air sizzles and splinters, crackling like a dry fire in the heat.</p><p>“Go back across the ocean to your whore mama,” Victor says.</p><p>“I cannot understand what the monkey says,” Michael says. “All he does is chatter –”</p><p>Benny launches forward with a roar. Christian snarls like a tiger and meets Luca head-on. Victor ducks as Raphael takes a swing for his head with the bat. Chuck pelts the basketball at one of the Angel’s feet, tripping him up. Ash whoops, “Yee-haw, motherfuckers,” and leaps into the fray.</p><p>Sam doesn’t understand. One moment it was a still, quiet July day. The next: outright war. And there must be something in the city’s summer air, all heavy heat and smog. It breeds violence in their veins, makes it so their blood boils, and they have to snap sooner or later or else they’ll explode.</p><p>“Get the fuck out of here.” Jo’s hand finds Sam’s chest and she pushes him with surprising strength. Sam wasn’t expecting it, and he totters, almost lands on his ass.</p><p>“Get off me, Jo!” Sam cries. He re-centers himself just in time to see two Angels dart away from the group toward him and Jo, probably thinking they’re headed for easy prey. Sam’s grin bites into his cheek, and he ducks a poorly aimed hit. Little do they know, Sam’s been slinging punches since he was five years old.</p><p>Sam comes up, fist balled, and slams into the guy’s ribs. The guy doubles over, wheezing. Meanwhile, Jo’s got her man pinned: she’s straddling him, a knee on each arm, and pummeling his face with one punch after another.</p><p>“Crazy bitch!” he spits and tries to roll his face out of the way of her fists.</p><p>Sam’s mark is back up. He takes another swing for Sam’s head, which Sam dodges easily, but he doesn’t expect the sharp jab of an elbow to his side. Sam hisses and spins out of the way. On the way, he sticks out his leg, uses his length to his advantage, and trips the guy up. The guy topples backward. The back of his head smacks the pavement.</p><p>Sam fights the impulse to land a kick to the guy’s skull – it’s street-fighting. It’s not pretty. It’s definitely not polite. But Sam’s never been a jerk, and he isn’t going to start now. He tosses a quick look to the street behind him, to see if maybe Ruby saw him take the guy out, but all the girls are gone. They probably scrammed at the first sign of trouble.</p><p>Sam doesn’t have time to be disappointed: the blow comes out of nowhere, lands solid at the base of his spine, and Sam stumbles. He catches himself hard against the ground, and his palms sting as they skid across the pavement. He barely has enough time to roll onto his back, so he can face his assailant, before the guy is on him.</p><p>Grinning wickedly, a trickle of blood running down his forehead, it’s Luca Nova. He catches Sam’s wrist in his long, claw-like fingers and he leers as he plows his fist into Sam’s face.</p><p>Pain. Sam’s skull bounces on the pavement from the recoil. Hot, pulsing pain through his nose. His vision blacks out and he blinks furiously, twisting his wrist in an effort to get free, but Luca’s got at least sixty pounds on Sam, and all of it is crushing Sam’s sternum, pinning him to the ground, and Luca draws back his fist for another hit.</p><p>“Winchester filth,” Luca spits. “Tell your coward brother I say <em>ciao</em>.”</p><p>A siren blares. Grinding tires. Luca’s face blanches. His fist relaxes, and suddenly he’s off Sam’s chest, back on his feet, and darting to join the other Angels.</p><p>A shrill whistle bleats through the air.</p><p>“Alright, break it up, break it up!” There’s the sound of heavy footsteps and scuffling.</p><p>A hand reaches out from above him and Sam takes it; he’s hauled back to his feet by Chuck, who’s sporting a puffy lip and a cut above his left eyebrow. Sam’s nose throbs and he tentatively prods it with his fingers, hand coming away bloody.</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” he hisses in pain and hopes to God that it’s not broken. He raises his sleeve to his nostrils in an effort to stem the bleeding.</p><p>“How many times have I told you punks,” Lieutenant Campbell growls, and bodily tears apart Ash and an Angel, who are still rolling around on the ground. He loses his fedora in the process and spits a curse, bending to retrieve it.</p><p>“Why if it ain’t Lieutenant Campbell!” Christian crows, spitting a wad of blood and saliva onto the court.</p><p>“And Officer Deacon,” Chuck says, batting his eyelashes at the tall, long-faced officer who smacks him upside the head in response.</p><p>The Angels, corralled by Michael, are huddled on the other court, nursing injuries and watching the policemen warily.</p><p>“Top of the day to ya, Lieutenant,” Ash says, tipping an imaginary cap and sharing a grin that reveals two missing teeth.</p><p>“The hell you think you’re doing?” Campbell demands. He fixes his fedora back atop his bald head, narrowing his eyes at each of their faces in turn.</p><p>“Just foolin’ around,” Benny says, smirking. It’s the kind of smirk only Dean can really pull off convincingly. On Benny it just makes his face look lopsided.</p><p>“Playing ah-base ah-ball with our good Italian pals,” Chuck says.</p><p>“Keeps us delinquents off the streets,” Ash adds.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Deacon says gruffly. “Can it, kids.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t mind Officer Deacon. He’s an okay guy, according to Dean, for the fuzz. But Lieutenant Samuel Campbell, Sam hates with all his guts. Wanted to plug the guy ever since, four months ago, he threw Dean in the slammer for a month with broken ribs and bullshit charges.</p><p>“You,” Campbell says suddenly, pointing to Sam through the crowd like he’d somehow sensed the waves of hatred Sam’d been sending his way. “Kid, come here.”</p><p>Jo sends him a sideways glance. Ash shrugs at him. But no one comes to his rescue, so Sam steps forward.</p><p>But Campbell doesn’t even give Sam a second glance before he turns and gestures to the Angels, “You gonna tell me which greaser landed one on you?”</p><p>Sam catches sight of Luca’s scowl, and he remembers, with a fresh surge of anger, the sound of his voice when he said <em>coward brother</em>, but as much as Sam hates the Angels, he hates Campbell more. Besides, he’s no squealer.</p><p>“It, ah, it wasn’t –” Sam starts.</p><p>“What Sammy-boy means to say,” Christian says, voice oily, and he slings an easy arm around Sam’s shoulder. Sam grits his teeth, but he takes it. Just this once. “Is that it was a cop.”</p><p>“Two cops,” says Jo.</p><p>“Not possible,” Deacon says.</p><p>“In America,” Michael steps forward with a grin and spreads his arms, “anything is possible.”</p><p>“How ‘bout you shut the hell up before I drag you in,” Campbell snaps, and Michael falls silent with a faint smile. “Now listen up, you sons of bitches. Tear each other to pieces for all I care. But not around here, you hear me? Wanna kill each other? Fucking kill each other. But you ain’t gonna do it on my beat.”</p><p>“Aye, aye, captain,” Ash says and snaps off a quick salute.</p><p>“Yes, sir, please, sir,” Luca interrupts. “Will you please translate into Italian for my poor cousins Zachariah and Bartholomew?”</p><p>“Fuck out a’ here!” Campbell orders, throwing a finger to the gate on the other side of the playground.</p><p>Michael ducks into another of his theatrical bows. “Whatever you say, sir.”</p><p>“We have the utmost respect for authority here in America,” Luca adds.</p><p>“<em>Andiamocene</em>,” Michael orders, and the Angels shuffle in behind him. The Hunters and the two cops watch them leave.</p><p>Campbell mutters something under his breath that Sam’s pretty sure is, “if the streets weren’t crummy enough…” before he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the Hunters.</p><p>“Alright,” he starts, “listen up, fellas. I’m a reasonable guy. If I can’t keep you kids from slugging it out, I’m gonna get busted down to a traffic corner. So that means you’re gonna make nice with the greaseballs, you hear me? Cause if you don’t,” his voice hardens. There’s a nasty twist to his lips, and Sam’s stomach curdles. “I got no problem beating the shit out of ya myself and throwing you in the pound for the rest of your sorry-ass lives. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again. Capiche?”</p><p>Sam rounds his fingers into fists, and he knows Victor and Benny are thinking about Dean, too, because both of their faces go slack with anger.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, we capiche,” says Chuck quickly, clearly sensing danger.</p><p>“Good,” Campbell nods. He’s already turning on his heel and marching back to the squad car.</p><p>Deacon sighs, “Do as he says, boys,” sounding resigned.</p><p>“Adios,” Ash solutes Deacon, which swiftly turns to flipping him off as soon as his back is turned.</p><p>“It ain’t his beat, it’s ours,” Christian says petulantly and kicks a pebble with his toe.</p><p>“Fuck him,” Benny says decisively. He turns around, and the rest of them follow over to the other end of the park, where there are a couple rusting metal benches. Some kids have scribbled up the pavement with sidewalk chalk. There’s a rainbow and a meadow of grinning sunflowers. Ash scuffs his shoe against the drawings so they smudge.</p><p>“How’s the beak, Sammy-boy?” Victor hangs back to give Sam a hard look.</p><p>“It’s <em>Sam,</em>” Sam bites. But he realizes he’s still got his sleeve against his nose and he pulls it away tentatively. The bleeding’s stopped. He takes an experimental sniff, and it doesn’t hurt too bad, even if it's plugged up with dried blood.</p><p>Benny stops at the benches and drops onto the seat. He blows out a slow breath, probably easing his way through some kind of ache leftover from the scuffle. His eyes fall on Jo. “I thought I told you to get out of here,” he tells her with a frown.</p><p>“Screw you,” Jo says. “I took down that fucker Zachariah with a whole lot less trouble than you had with Michael.” </p><p>“I’ll screw you, Jo,” Christian says.</p><p>“You fucking touch me –” Jo lunges forward, and she’s got her pocketknife flipped open.</p><p>“Can it!” Victor’s between them in a second, one hand on Christian’s chest and another on Jo.</p><p>Sam doesn’t say anything. He fades into the background, like Dean taught him. He’s afraid that Benny might suddenly remember that he’d asked Sam to leave, too, and he doesn’t want to be sent away right when things are getting interesting.</p><p>The fighting and the turf wars, that’s not the appeal of being a Hunter, not in Sam’s books; it’s the camaraderie. It’s a family. Somewhere to belong. </p><p>“Alright, alright,” Christian drops his hands and backs up from Victor. And Sam swallows back the twinge of irritation directed at Christian for only ever intervening when a situation’s already under control. He just wants to make himself look big. Anyone with eyes could tell he and Victor had been battling it out for second in command ever since Dean stepped down and Benny took over. “Cut it out, girlie.”</p><p>“Cool it, brothers,” Benny says. He raises a lazy hand to scratch his belly. He waits a beat for Ash and Chuck to stop admiring the dick Ash drew with a spare piece of chalk. “You heard Campbell. No more slugging it out with the macaronies.”</p><p>“Fuck that, Benny –” Christian begins, but Benny cuts him off with a raised hand.</p><p>“So?” Benny says. “We know how to put an end to turf wars, don’t we? We’ve done it before. Cleaned out the Vamps and the Wolves. We can do it again.”</p><p>Christian’s grinning now, a slow, evil, looking thing that makes Sam’s stomach twist. But Christian’s not the only one who looks pleased: Ash and Chuck clap each other on the shoulder. Victor’s got a gleam in his eye. Jo’s fighting back a smile. Sam just feels a little sick, but maybe that’s because of the hit to his skull earlier.</p><p>“Show ‘em once and for all who’s boss,” Benny says with a pleased nod of his head.</p><p>“A rumble?” Christian says.</p><p>“Zip guns?” Ash says quickly. The words leave a pulse of nausea behind in their wake, and Sam hides his unease by shuffling into a more relaxed stance.</p><p>“Blades!” Jo says at once, running a finger up the edge of her knife, and no one even notices Sam’s shifting feet. </p><p>“Blades, guns, skin,” Benny says, “I don’t give a shit. We’re gonna tear ‘em to pieces, either way.”</p><p>“We gonna set up a war council?” Christian says, and his enthusiasm is practically sweating out of his pores.</p><p>Benny nods. “Tonight. There’s a dance at the gym. School’s neutral territory. Perfect place for it. Away from the ears of Campbell and Deacon.”</p><p>“You gotta take a lieutenant to a war council,” Christian says, and Sam narrows his eyes at him because Sam knows that Christian thinks that should be him, and he hopes to God Benny chooses Victor, instead.</p><p>“That’s right,” says Benny. “That’s Dean.”</p><p>“Dean?” says Christian. He’s not the only one. Victor and Jo echo him.</p><p>“Dean’s not a Hunter no more,” Ash says, and he wrinkles his nose like he’s confused, not trying to pick a fight.</p><p>“We don’t need Dean!” Christian says.</p><p>Sam bristles. “We need him a helluva lot more than we need you,” he steps forward.</p><p>“Shuddup, Sammy-boy,” Christian sneers. “The grown-ups are talking.”</p><p>“You wanna say that again,” Sam says. He takes a step forward, raises his fist, and his knuckles are bruised from where he rammed them against that Angel’s chest. His palms are scraped up and pockmarked with little pieces of gravel.</p><p>“Easy, slugger,” Victor says and puts a warning hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing hard.</p><p>“When you’re a Hunter, you stay a Hunter,” Benny says calmly.</p><p>“He hasn’t been here for months,” Chuck protests. “Ever since he got out a’ the slammer –”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s gone yellow,” Christian spits.</p><p>“You watch your fool mouth,” Jo says.</p><p>“When shit hits the fan, Dean’s always been there, and you know it,” Victor adds.</p><p>“It’s family, man,” Benny says, and it’s decided because Benny’s the boss without Dean there to say otherwise.</p><p>Christian looks bad-tempered, but he’s not arguing anymore. No one else protests, and Benny slaps his palms to his knees and hauls himself back to his feet.</p><p>“Alright then. Everyone dress up sharp for the dance tonight.” Benny’s eyes land on Sam. “And let’s get you home, brother. There’ll be hell to pay after Dean sees I left you bleeding.”</p><p>“I’m not hurt,” Sam protests.</p><p>Benny rolls his eyes and lets loose a long-suffering sigh, “Sure you’re not, kid. Let’s go.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Act One: Scene Two, Something’s Coming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Btw, no one's related who isn't specified as such. So Lieutenant Campbell is just an asshole, not an asshole grandpa.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean’s got his upper body buried under a piece of shit station wagon when someone’s toe taps his ankle and Benny’s voice rumbles his typical greeting, “Hiya, chief.”</p>
<p>“Kick me that ratchet, will you?” Dean says, flinging out a hand and wiggling his fingers from below the undercarriage.</p>
<p>A shoe descends and kicks over the socket wrench. And Dean would recognize those once-white basketball shoes with the frayed seams anywhere; he bought ‘em didn’t he? Dean lands his palms on the cool cement and propels himself out from under the car, creeper’s back wheel still sticking no matter how often Dean oils it.</p>
<p>Dean pushes himself into a sitting position, and then he feels his heart drop into his bowels, because, “Son of a <em>bitch</em>, Benny,” he’s on his feet in half a second. “What the hell did you do to my brother?”</p>
<p>“I’m <em>fine</em>!” Sammy wails like a girl and tries to duck out of the way as Dean grabs for his chin.</p>
<p>At the same time Benny mumbles, “<em>I</em> didn’t do it,” but it’s quiet enough that he was probably hoping Dean wouldn’t hear him.</p>
<p>“Like hell you didn’t,” Dean shoots at Benny and then turns to Sam. “Like hell you’re not. You look like shit!”</p>
<p>Finally, he succeeds in catching hold of Sammy’s chin, bracing his head with his other hand to Sam’s cheek. He surveys the damage with a practiced-eye, inwardly willing his heart to stop playing the fucking bongos against his ribs, and definitely not thinking about how this would be a whole lot easier if Sam’s face wasn’t level with Dean’s now. Kid grows like a fucking weed.</p>
<p>“<em>Dean</em>,” Sammy pouts. Dean looks at the bruising that’s already forming around his little brother’s right eye. There’s dried blood running in two stripes from Sam’s nostrils, and the bridge of his nose is a little puffy, but it doesn’t look crooked, so it’s probably not broken.</p>
<p>“Keep your eyes open,” Dean grunts, and he’s relieved when Sam does what he says, staring straight ahead despite his glower.</p>
<p>Dean peers into his brother’s eyes, checking the pupils, but they look normal, so no concussion. Finally, Dean releases the breath of air that’s been clogging up his lungs, and he lets go of Sammy’s face.</p>
<p>“Sit down,” he orders, cause he’s not done yet. Benny’s shuffling awkwardly over by the open garage door, but Dean ignores him. Benny can wait until Dean’s sure his little brother’s okay.</p>
<p>Sammy’s grumbling under his breath but follows Dean’s directions and hauls himself up to sit on the workbench. His legs are long enough now that his toe scrapes pavement despite the height of his perch. He pulls his hands into his lap and fixes Dean with a challenging look, as if to say, <em>what now?</em></p>
<p>That’s when Dean notices Sammy’s hands are both bleeding – not <em>bleeding</em>-bleeding – but there’s still blood. And little pebbles caught in the skin.</p>
<p>“The fuck you do to yourself?” Dean cries, catching hold of Sam’s wrist. He prods his brother’s palm with his thumb and Sam hisses in pain, trying to yank his hand back.</p>
<p>“The hell, Dean?” Sammy grunts. “Leggo.”</p>
<p>“Why the hell ain’t you in school?” Dean demands of Sam, and he gets an eye-roll in return, the little punk.</p>
<p>“It’s summer vacation, Dean,” Sam says.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well,” Dean blows out a breath to give himself time to think up a suitable retort. “You should be hanging out in the library or something, you nerd.”</p>
<p>Dean releases Sam’s hand.</p>
<p>“You move a fucking muscle and I’ll tan your ass so hard you won’t sit for a month,” Dean says, and Sam just rolls his eyes again because they both know Dean is lying through his teeth. “And you,” Dean points to Benny, who goes a little pale, because they both know Dean is telling every word of truth, “you even think about leaving this garage, and I will tear your lungs out through your throat.”</p>
<p>Then Dean storms away from his brother, making for Bobby’s office at the end of the garage. Bobby’s already headed upstairs to his apartment above the garage, but he leaves the office for Dean to lock up in case any late customers call.</p>
<p>Dean shoulders open the door. He takes a couple of extra seconds to breathe, shutting his eyes, willing his hands to stop trembling as he fights back the image of Sam’s black and blue face from where it’s tattooed on his retinas. Then he grabs the first-aid kit from the bottom drawer of Bobby’s desk. On his way back out, he snatches a relatively clean rag from the drying wrack they keep by the utility sink.</p>
<p>He makes his way back over to Sam. It’s deadly quiet in the garage in the wake of Dean’s anger. Dean can hear every honk, cuss, and grind of tires on the street outside as evening commuters start making their way back to their white-picket-fence homes and wives wearing frilly aprons and bright smiles, just like in <em>I Love Lucy</em>.</p>
<p>Sam budges open his knees as soon as Dean gets close enough, and Dean sets the kit next to Sam’s thigh. Dean stands in front of his brother, pops open the kit, and rustles through it for the right tools. Bobby never kicked the habits he picked up as an army medic, and he keeps the kit stocked with everything you could possibly need for accidents on the job: bandages, antiseptic, about ten different kinds of pills, and cotton pads. Dean pulls out the iodine and a pair of tweezers. </p>
<p>He works in silence for several minutes. Neither Sammy nor Benny interrupt him. He wipes Sammy’s palms as clean as he can with the rag, then he dampens a cotton pad with the iodine and presses it to one of the larger scrapes.</p>
<p>“Shit,” Sammy says, inhaling through his teeth.</p>
<p>“Might sting a little,” Dean warns belatedly, and Sam shoots him the patented Bitch Face. After Dean’s padded each of the cuts with antiseptic, he douses the tweezers with iodine and goes after the pebbles.</p>
<p>Sam doesn’t make another sound, despite the fact that routing around with tweezers probably stings a helluva lot worse than just cleaning the cuts. Dean tosses his little brother a glance to make sure he’s alright. Sam’s jaw is clenched, and he’s looking at something over Dean’s shoulder, obviously fighting with himself to not give away how much it hurts.</p>
<p>“So,” Dean says because even though he’s currently commanding the silence, he’s never been one to enjoy quiet for too long. “You gonna tell me what you got him into?” Dean says to Benny and spares the guy a glance over his shoulder.</p>
<p>Benny scuffs his toe into the floor, and at least he has the grace to look repentant. “Playground,” he mutters.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Dean says. He waits. Benny doesn’t elaborate. Dean shoots his raised eyebrows to Sam, but apparently mum’s the fucking word, cause the kid doesn’t make a sound, either. “The other guys around?” Dean guesses.</p>
<p>He already has a pretty good picture of what went down, and he doesn’t like it – in fact, he hates it. He hates it so much he wants to take those old cuffs he found in the basement of the Roadhouse and secure Sam to the radiator, so he can’t ever leave the apartment again. But, even if Dean already suspects what happened, it’d sure be nice to hear it from his little brother or best friend.</p>
<p>“Couple,” Benny admits.</p>
<p>“And they tried to fix your face?” Dean says to Sam. Even though he knows none of the guys would be stupid enough to lay a finger on Dean Winchester’s little brother. Barring Christian, maybe, who’s got a brick instead of a brain.</p>
<p>“The – ah,” Benny continues hesitantly behind Dean. “Couple a’ Angels showed up.”</p>
<p>Dean focuses on keeping his fingers steady. He picks out the last of gravel from Sammy’s palm and presses the iodine-soaked cotton over the cut again, a little harder than he’d meant to if Sam’s hiss of pain is anything to go by.</p>
<p>“Couple a’ Angels?” Dean echoes.</p>
<p>Soundlessly, Sam hops back off the workbench. He stuffs his ruined hands into his pockets.</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t look at Benny. He balls up the bloody cotton pads and tosses them into the bin Bobby keeps under the workbench. He caps up the bottle of iodine and fits it back into the kit. He wipes off the tweezers on the rag and sticks it next to the iodine. Then he shuts the lid. He’s pretty sure if he looks at Benny right now, he’s going to slug him.</p>
<p>“Got into a scuffle, boss,” Benny says, like he’s pleading. Like that’s in any way gonna make Dean more inclined to forgive him. “Just a little one. No one even got hurt. Not really. Campbell showed up before –”</p>
<p>“Fucking Campbell?” Dean says, and it bursts out of his lips because there’s no room for it anymore, not with the surge of sick fear that floods Dean’s chest at the thought of Lieutenant Campbell. Because, sure, Dean had thought he was going to die plenty of times before that alleyway four months ago, but he’d never thought it’d be by being beaten to death by a fucking cop.</p>
<p>“Fucking Campbell showed up?” Dean repeats and rounds on Benny, and the guy takes a couple steps back, looking genuinely alarmed. “Campbell doesn’t show up for a Goddamned <em>little</em> scuffle.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Dean –” Benny starts to say, but Sam cuts him off.</p>
<p>“It’s not like he dragged me there!” Sam sidesteps so he’s between Dean and Benny. Sam with his stupid puppy dog eyes and too-long, floppy hair, and fucking black eye because Dean wasn’t there to protect him, not the way he should ‘a been. And, if Dean were less pissed off, he’d spare a thought for the fact that Sam and Benny are at least getting the fuck along for once. “I decided to show up.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you fucking defend him,” Dean says, stabbing Sam in the chest with his pointer finger. “He knows better than to let you stick around.”</p>
<p>“He told me to get out, Dean,” Sam says softly, eyes going all droopy and earnest. And he’s the only one – the Goddamn only one – who can pull that kind of shit on Dean and not expect to get his ears boxed. “I was stupid and didn’t listen.”</p>
<p>Dean holds Sam’s gaze hard for a couple seconds, and he knows, reflected through the glimmer of nervousness in Sam’s eyes, that Dean’s got the kind of look on his face that’s all John Winchester.</p>
<p>“You said it, not me,” Dean says finally. And Sam deflates marginally in relief.  </p>
<p>Dean still isn’t too crazy about looking at Benny, so he turns around, grabs the first-aid kit, and heads back to Bobby’s office.</p>
<p>“What the fuck you wanna hang around with them for, anyway?” Dean grouses. He kicks Bobby’s door open, puts the kit on the desk, and heads back out, in time to hear Sammy mumble something that sounds distinctly like <em>Ruby</em>.</p>
<p>“Ruby?” Dean says flatly, walking back the length of the garage. Sam is looking at his feet. “Ruby’s a fucking skank.”</p>
<p>“He’s got a point, brother,” Benny tells Sam with a shrug.</p>
<p>“You shut your pie hole,” Dean tells Benny. “This is family business.”</p>
<p>Benny bristles. “Hunters are family.”</p>
<p>“Different kind a’ family, Benny,” Dean says firmly.</p>
<p>“You wound me,” Benny says, putting a hand over his heart and swooning.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean aims a kick for Benny’s ankle. “You deserve it.” But the atmosphere clears up after that. Dean’s still pissed as hell that Sam got sucked into something with the Angels, but he got out of it with nothing worse than a black eye and scraped-up hands. Sammy’s okay. Shit happens. And it’s not Benny’s fault, anyway; it’s Dean’s for letting Sam roam around by himself.</p>
<p>“As much as I like the idea of you finally gettin’ laid,” Dean starts, “no way no how am I gonna let you get lucky with fucking Ruby.”</p>
<p>“What the hell is wrong with Ruby?” Sammy demands, a miniature fold in the shape of a <em>v</em> forming between his eyebrows, he’s frowning so hard.</p>
<p>“She hangs around the guys too much,” Dean says evasively.</p>
<p>“So does Lisa,” Sam retorts. “Didn’t stop you.”</p>
<p>“Lisa’s fucking different Sammy, and you know it,” Dean says. But he knows he can’t talk fast enough for his brother’s abnormally large brain. “Can’t you just –” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, getting his fingernails full of styling wax. Bobby always tells him he uses too much. “Just find yourself a nice girl, Sammy?”</p>
<p>Sammy throws up his hands in exasperation and sighs. He shoves off the wall and goes to take a lap around the garage, work out some of that pansy-ass teenage angst he’s been stewing in for the past few years.</p>
<p>“So, you headed to that dance tonight, chief?” Benny says, way-too-casually. Clearly, he wants to change the subject; the farther away from the scuffle, the better. Sure, Dean may not be the king of subtlety, but at least he ain’t the joker.</p>
<p>“You asking me to prom, Benny?” Dean says. Sammy wanders toward the back of the garage, where Bobby’s got a surplus 1930s icebox stowed next to the sink. He usually keeps it pretty well stocked with beer and a couple sodas ‘cause he knows Sammy hangs around while Dean works late.</p>
<p>“Toss me a Coors, eh, Sammy?” Dean says.</p>
<p>“Make it two, Sammy-boy,” Benny says.</p>
<p>“And you can have a <em>coke</em>, you hear me?” Dean adds because he wouldn’t put it past his brother nabbing a beer of his own.</p>
<p>“It’s just a chance to kick back a little, chief,” Benny brings their conversation back to the dance. “The guys’ll be there. Give ‘em a chance to say ‘hey.’ You know, prove you’re not dead.”</p>
<p>“They know I’m not dead, Benny,” Dean rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Benny says, scanning him. “From where I’m standing, you look pretty dead, brother.”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t have time to answer before Sammy’s back with the beers. He passes one to Dean and tosses one underhand to Benny. Dean pops the cap with his ring and listens to the satisfying sizzle of carbonation escaping through the opening. The bottle is slick with condensation in the muggy summer heat, and Dean presses the lip to his mouth, swallowing a couple slugs and relishing the cool slide down his throat.</p>
<p>“That supposed to mean something, Benny?” Dean says finally after Benny’s taken his own drink and just keeps fucking staring at Dean like he’s trying to be profound or some shit.</p>
<p>“The gang’s been talking like you ain’t a Hunter anymore,” Benny says.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. And it isn’t true, except it kind a’ is. Dean hasn’t seen the gang in more than three months, not since Bobby dragged his sorry ass out of that stinking cell.</p>
<p>“Yeah, well,” Dean says. He takes another drink of beer. “I’ve been busy. Gotta earn Bobby back that bail he posted. Not to mention all the food he wasted on this beanstalk.” He juts his thumb over to Sam, who says “Hey!”</p>
<p>“So,” Benny says carefully, “That means you comin’ back after you’re square with the old man?”</p>
<p>Dean picks at the corner of the label on his bottle, works it with his thumbnail and peels it clean off, all under Benny’s relentless gaze. And Sammy. Dean can feel his little brother’s eyes on him even stronger than his best friend’s.</p>
<p>“It means I gotta get square first,” Dean says. He puts his beer on the workbench. He bends to pick up the ratchet he left on the ground and tosses it into the toolbox open by the station wagon’s trunk. It lands in the box with a clatter. Fucking mess. Dean should really get around to organizing that; Lord knows Bobby won’t do it.</p>
<p>Truth is, Dean can’t risk heading back to the cooler. He can’t do that to Sammy. Hell, he can’t do that to himself. Damn near went crazy inside those four walls. And Dean can’t risk getting hurt or killed if he gets messed up with Hunter business again. He’s got a target the size of the Empire State Building on his back now, from both the Novas and Lieutenant Campbell.</p>
<p>And, sue him, Dean had a lot of time to think in that cell. A lot of time since he got out to think some more. ‘Cause old man Turner who owns the scrapyard next door had a wrecked 1947 Chevy towed in about a month ago and he said if Dean pays for all the parts and fixes ‘er up, himself, he can have her, free of charge.</p>
<p>And having some wheels might just be his ticket out of this cesspool. Him and Sammy both. The kid has a future in front of him, unlike Dean, and Dean wants to do everything in his power, so Sammy doesn’t end up like his loser of an older brother. Sammy’s only got two years left of school, and after that, who knows?</p>
<p>“It’s a war council tonight,” Benny says, finally playing his trump card. It works; Dean’s stomach clenches.</p>
<p>“Michael and Luca gonna be there?” Dean says.</p>
<p>“Bastards,” Benny confirms.</p>
<p>Dean hesitates.</p>
<p>“Luca’s the one that gave your brother that shiner,” Benny says.</p>
<p>Dean grinds his teeth together, shoots Sammy a sharp glance, and Sammy’s abashed face is enough to confirm it, even if Sammy shrugs and says, “He hits like a sissy, Dean. I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Now’s your chance to get even, Dean,” Benny says. “Show ‘em once and for all who owns this neighborhood.”</p>
<p>“We planning a rumble?” Dean says, and he’d meant to say <em>you</em>, but old habits die hard and all that jazz.</p>
<p>“You know it, brother,” Benny grins.</p>
<p>“What time’s the dance?”</p>
<p>“Eight o’clock,” Benny says.</p>
<p>“Eight it is,” Dean says, making his decision.</p>
<p>Benny beams, and Dean rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“Now get the hell out a’ here before I change my mind,” Dean warns. Benny chuckles warmly, claps Dean on the shoulder, and only laughs harder as Dean bats away his hand.</p>
<p>Benny wanders out of the garage, whistling <em>In the Hall of the Mountain King</em> as he disappears down the street.</p>
<p>“So, ah,” Sammy starts. “The, ah, dance tonight….”</p>
<p>“Like hell, Sammy,” Dean says flatly. “You’ve had enough excitement today to last you the rest of the fucking summer.”</p>
<p>Sammy calls Dean a cocksucker and then heads out of the garage. Dean makes sure he turns the right direction for their apartment before he spins on his heel and starts up on the cleanup for the rest of the night. There’s no point finishing up the station wagon now; it’ll be there in the morning. So, Dean tosses his tools into the box and takes the keys off the hook by the garage door and crosses the floor again to lock Bobby’s office.</p>
<p>He passes his half-empty beer bottle on the workbench and pauses for a minute, watches the bubbles of carbonation form at the bottom of the bottle and slide up to the foam at the top, fizzing and popping.</p>
<p>And he thinks about the fact that nearly every night since he got out of that fucking cell, he’s had the same dream: something, a dark shape, a figure, or a face, just out of reach. And a great rush of flapping wings before he startles awake. Always the same damn dream, and he always wakes up with his arm stretched out, like he’s grabbing for something. Looking for another hand to come tug him out of the pit.</p>
<p>But that’s stupid. Definitely too stupid to mention to Sammy or Benny.</p>
<p>But, who knows? Maybe it means something. Maybe it means something’s gonna happen. Hell, maybe it even means something good’s gonna happen. After all, it’s about time Dean got a run of good luck. Everyone’s in line for a miracle at least once in their life – and if it’s gonna skip over Dean, then maybe it’ll at least land on Sammy. Who knows.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Act One: Scene Three, America</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Castiel, you are coming and that is that,” Anna says, and she pouts. Castiel hates it when she pouts. It turns her pretty, pink smile sad and wilted. It reminds him of how wan she looked after Mama died. On those long last days aboard the boat.</p>
<p>“I won’t have fun,” Castiel objects, because dances are about having fun, but Castiel doesn’t understand how fun works in places like those. Too many people and too much talking and too loud music. And Castiel does not like dancing. He doesn’t like the tight press of bodies and the sticky smell of sweat, girls who’ve spent so much time on their dresses, hair, and makeup – girls who deserve someone better than Castiel. Someone who will actually appreciate their effort.  </p>
<p>Castiel would much prefer to stay home in the quiet of his room or perhaps the cooling air out on the fire escape where he can read or write in the lamplight spilling out of his open window.</p>
<p>“Of course you will,” Anna says and swats his hand away from where he’d been reaching for his book again.</p>
<p>It is <em>A Farewell to Arms</em> by Ernest Hemingway, and Castiel quite enjoys it, although he’s sure Michael or Luca would accuse him of being anti-Italian if they knew he was reading such an American author, even if it is technically a book about the Italian army. But they don’t know what it’s about, and they won’t know, because they don’t read books, especially not books in English because neither read English very well. But Castiel is very good at reading English, and getting better, because books like <em>A Farewell to Arms</em> help him learn.</p>
<p>Besides, there is something entrancing and intoxicating about Catherine and Frederic’s love story. It somehow balances the tightrope between beauty and tragedy, simultaneously being both at once, and perhaps even more beautiful because of its tragedy. And Castiel finds himself mulling over their declarations of love, time and time again:</p>
<p>
  <em>Maybe...you'll fall in love with me all over again.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Hell, I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes. I want to ruin you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Good. That's what I want too.</em>
</p>
<p>“You should get dressed,” Anna tells him, still frowning. Castiel finally realizes that Anna is already dressed: she’s pulled her red hair out of her face and attempted to curl the stubbornly straight, thin ends; she’s wearing a light blue dress, cinched at the waist with a white ribbon. The color of the dress brings out her eyes well. She and Castiel are the only two of the six of them who got Mama’s blue eyes. She looks very American and very pretty. Castiel notices Anna’s even taken out her gold hoops, and he can’t help but worry about what Michael will say if he notices.</p>
<p>“You look pretty,” Castiel says.</p>
<p>“You needn’t sound so disappointed,” Anna says. She rolls her eyes and twirls on her kitten heels.</p>
<p>“Michael won’t –” Castiel starts.</p>
<p>“Oh, Michael won’t, Luca won’t – I don’t care, Castiel,” Anna interrupts him, and two high points of color rise in her cheeks. “I’m going to the dance to have fun, not to please Michael and Luca.”</p>
<p>Castiel bites his tongue around the response: <em>there likely won’t be any fun to have at all if Michael or Luca aren’t pleased</em>. Instead, he sighs, pushes himself out of the ratty armchair he dragged all by himself from the curbside up the six flights of stairs to their apartment. It’s the only thing that’s really his in the entire flat, barring his books. Everything else was bought by Michael or Luca or left to them by a succession of dead uncles. And Castiel loves that chair, even if it smells like mildew and there’s stuffing spilling out of the seams.</p>
<p>“Wear your tan jacket,” Anna tells him. She’s in his closet, rummaging through his clothes. “It makes your eyes look nice.”</p>
<p>“Michael likes us to wear black,” Castiel reminds her. “It’s –”</p>
<p>“I know damn well what <em>it</em> is,” Anna says – Castiel frowns at her language – and she turns to look at him, rivaling his frown with one of her own. “But you’re not part of his little <em>gang</em>, Castiel. You can wear what you’d like.”</p>
<p>“You don’t need to dress me,” Castiel protests because he isn’t sure whether or not he should agree that he isn’t part of Michael’s gang. It’s more complicated than that. “I don’t need to look good.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you do!” Anna cries. “How will you ever find a wife if you don’t make any kind of effort? Honestly, Castiel! It’s not like Mama and Papa are around anymore to play matchmaker.”</p>
<p>The remark about their late parents stings; it always does, but this time the rest of what Anna said stings worse. It burrows into the marrow of his bones and won’t let go, no matter how hard Castiel’s prayed for it to loosen its claws.</p>
<p>“You should let me do your hair,” Anna replies. “Puff it all up in front like the singer everyone loves. Pompadour? Yes, an Elvis pompadour.”</p>
<p>“Michael doesn’t like Elvis,” Castiel remarks. “He thinks he’s too provocative.”</p>
<p>“Michael doesn’t like anyone,” Anna replies.</p>
<p>But Castiel lets Anna play dress-up with him. She pulls out his clothes and holds them up to his chest, frowning thoughtfully, and then compares ties with shirts, and shirts with jackets, and shoes with slacks, and it isn’t as if Castiel has an overly large wardrobe; it’s simply that he never imagined there were quite so many combinations. Then she shoves a pile of clothes into his arms and turns around, so he can change.</p>
<p>Anna speaks to the wall. “We are American now,” she reminds Castiel, possibly for the thousandth time since they docked in the harbor eight years ago. “We are free to have fun.”</p>
<p>Castiel unbuckles his belt and snakes it out of the loops, then he drops his slacks, pulls on the new, darker pair Anna laid out for him, and replaces the belt.</p>
<p>“Michael says nothing is really free in America,” Castiel tells her. He unbuttons his shirt and strips it off.</p>
<p>“I’ve heard the commercial,” Anna says, snapping her heel on the floor. She rattles off in an exaggeratedly deep voice, imitating their oldest brother: “We are immigrants – lice! Cockroaches! We came here with our hearts open and minds open –”</p>
<p>“Luca says with our legs open,” Castiel tells her. He tugs on his new shirt and carefully buttons it up to his chin. He tucks the shirttails into his slacks and zips up his fly, buckles his belt again.</p>
<p>“– only to have our hearts and dreams crushed,” Anna continues as if she didn’t hear Castiel.</p>
<p>He runs a hand down his torso to make sure there are no wrinkles in his shirt. He likes things to be precise.</p>
<p>Anna is on a roll now; Castiel lets her finish, if only because he does not want to risk getting his head bitten off if he interrupts her.</p>
<p>“But Michael does not remember Italy as clearly as I do,” Anna says. “He does not remember how backward it was – how women still wear skirts down to their ankles. How a girl must only be seen and not heard and have a collar buttoned up to her chin!”</p>
<p>Castiel neglects to tell her that she was only ten when they left their home country; she cannot possibly remember it clearer than Michael, who was twelve when he crossed with Papa, Luca, and Gabriel.</p>
<p>“America has air-conditioning and Cadillacs and gymnasiums full of young people without parents to stop their sons from touching my hand or kissing my cheek,” Anna rants. “America is okay by me.”</p>
<p>“I am finished,” Castiel tells her quietly. He holds out his arms to show himself off, feeling a little silly, but there aren’t many things he won’t do for his little sister. He’s wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and the tan jacket Anna says compliments his complexion.</p>
<p>Anna spins around and surveys the final product critically. She steps forward, lips pursed, and undoes the top two buttons at Castiel’s neck.</p>
<p>“You’re worried,” Anna reprimands him softly. “I can see it in your eyebrows. Don’t do that; you’ll get creases.”</p>
<p>“I will try not to,” Castiel says solemnly.</p>
<p>“If Michael and Luca want to playact mob boss, let them,” Anna replies loftily. “You’re coming to the dance with me; they won’t bother you.”</p>
<p>And it’s true that Castiel is going to the dance with Anna. But it isn’t true that he will spend much time with Anna once she’s there. Anna has her own friends and her own flawless way of fitting into society. She doesn’t need her strange, silent brother weighing her down the entire night. Besides, Michael and Luca have told Castiel that it’s his job to keep an eye on Anna at the dance, not to heel at her side like a well-trained dog. Castiel can watch her better from the edge of the room, where the other rejects stand: the girls who aren’t pretty enough, the boys who’ve been dragged along to chaperone younger siblings.</p>
<p>There, Castiel can watch Anna dance, and laugh, and flirt with all the young Italian boys Michael and Luca approve of. He can watch her worm her way into the arms of a future husband, so she can become a housewife and wear cherry-pink lipstick like Castiel’s seen in department store windows, and cook vats of chicken stew and apple pies for her five or six children, beam at her husband as he carves up a Thanksgiving turkey like the perfect American family in the Norman Rockwell illustration.</p>
<p>“There are multiple women’s colleges, you know,” Castiel says, and Anna pauses from where she’d been comparing cologne scents against her white wrist.</p>
<p>“What?” she laughs, a little mystified. And Castiel knows it’s a bad habit of his: jumping into the middle of conversations he’s only been having with himself.</p>
<p>“Women’s colleges,” Castiel clarifies. “There are many of them now. And some are quite good. There’s Albertus Magnus in Connecticut. Even Sarah Lawrence. You’re very intelligent.”</p>
<p>Anna’s eyes go soft and a little sad. “You know we don’t have that kind of money, Castiel.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Castiel says at once. He looks at the ground and sees his shoe is untied. He crouches to remedy this. “But there are – what I mean to say is – there are <em>other</em> things to do, Anna. Other possibilities.”</p>
<p>Anna laughs, clear as a bell, but Castiel knows her well enough to hear the hint of strain under her fluty voice. “Let’s leave the possibilities for Alfie, eh? The four of us pulling together will get him off to college if not any of the rest of us.”</p>
<p>Castiel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think uncharitably about his sister, but he knows that, when it comes to dresses and dances, she’ll take a stand against their older brothers, but if it’s bigger than that – if it’s education or who to marry, she’ll fold; she always does. And so does Cas. The only one among the six of them with any moral fiber was Gabriel, but Gabriel’s rebellion came at the cost of everything he’d ever known: family, home, and the church. Castiel doesn’t think he has the stomach for that.</p>
<p>Anna makes him sprits himself twice with the cologne, and then they’re off to walk the five blocks to the high school gymnasium, Anna’s heels clicking on the sidewalk as they go.</p>
<p>Castiel stares at the circles of light the streetlamps cast on the sidewalks, and he glances above them, past the high-rises and towering buildings, to look at the dome of dark sky that stretches overhead, blocking out the stars with its clouds of black smoke from the factories and orange light that creeps over the buildings across Manhattan.</p>
<p>He thinks about Hemmingway. And he thinks about how lonely it is to be in the city, away from his home country, between worlds. Neither here nor there. His family does not understand him, and Castiel does not know what’s wrong with him, either.</p>
<p>Hemmingway’s lines ring through his ears, echoing in the blackness of the street:</p>
<p>
  <em>I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Act One: Scene Four, The Dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s called jitterbugging, and Dean’s damn good at it. He can Lindy Hop, jive, and swing like the best of them, and it makes the ladies swoon even if Benny and the other guys might make fun of him for it.</p>
<p>One hand low on Lisa’s back, other hand gripping hers, palms sticky with sweat. And he’s got the hip-motion down pat, all in the pelvis, in and out. And swing her out across the floor, twirl her back in. Get a mouthful of her dark hair, but she’s laughing, and he’s laughing, and the music is good: Fats Domino’s <em>Blue Monday</em> and Andy Williams’ <em>Butterfly</em>.</p>
<p>Benny hails him from the wall of the gymnasium, where he’s standing with an arm around Bela’s shoulders. Bela has that calculated, measured look on her face that reminds Dean a little of the pictures of hunting lionesses in the issues of <em>National Geographic</em> he used to pick up for Sammy when he was a kid.</p>
<p>He and Lisa slide off the floor. She’s nestled tight to his side, and her perfume smells good; Dean had forgotten how nice she fit under his arm. It’s been a while since he’s seen her. It might be nice to do some catching up later.</p>
<p>“Posse just came in, chief,” Benny says, and nods across the room, where Michael and Luca Nova have just stepped through the gym’s double doors, dragging along the rest of their gang and girls. Dean catches sight of Anna Nova, hanging off the arm of some square in a tan jacket. Dean has to admit that Anna’s sexy as hell. Something about those blue eyes of hers makes Dean think about all sorts of things he shouldn’t about the Nova brothers’ little sister. Everyone knows Angel girls exist under a strict <em>look don’t touch</em> policy.</p>
<p>Across the distance, Dean can see Michael’s eyes zero in on the Hunters. His eyes land on Dean – Dean’s chest tightens, like his body’s remembering the last time they met – and Micheal gives Dean the merest trace of a smirk before he steers the Angels to the opposite side of the gym, splitting it nice and clear down the middle.</p>
<p>Dean tries not to think about how the last time he saw those eyes, it was in an alley in the middle of the night four months ago. Or about the fact that Michael got away because of dumb luck; if Dean hadn’t twisted his ankle on a broken fucking flowerpot, he’d have gotten away from Lieutenant Campbell, too.</p>
<p>Christian skids across the gym and joins the party, dragging some girl Dean thinks is called Gwen. “You see ‘em?” he says.</p>
<p>“Yep,” Benny answers.</p>
<p>Christian’s got a smile digging into his narrow cheeks, but it fades as soon as his eyes land on Dean. “Winchester,” he says, surprise and a little bit of mockery evident in his voice. “Didn’t think you were gonna show up.”</p>
<p>“I’m just full a’ surprises,” Dean says, smiling sweetly and fluttering his eyelashes at Christian. Christian looks away in disgust. Chuck and Ash meet Dean with roars of welcome. Victor greats him with a handshake and a slap on the back.</p>
<p>Ruby comes off the floor with a whirl of skirts and curled hair. “Sammy here?” she asks him.</p>
<p>“No,” Dean answers her stonily and looks away.</p>
<p>The only two who look like they're not having any fun is Jo and Charlie. Jo’s wearing pants, like usual, and she’s sulking: sitting cross-legged on the floor, probably wishing she could carve something up with that little pig-sticker she carries around. And Charlie’s slumped against the wall, looking clumsy and awkward in too much lace and, for some reason, staring glumly at Jo.</p>
<p>Dean’s always liked Charlie – she’s snappy and fun and always good for a laugh. The other guys complain about how she doesn’t put out, but Dean doesn’t need her to put out; there are plenty of other girls around for that.</p>
<p>“Hiya, Charles,” he joins her against the wall.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, who?” she says, eyes drifting lazily away from Jo to fix on Dean.</p>
<p>Dean rolls his eyes. “Your Highness,” he corrects himself and rolls his hand in front of his chest, inclining his head in a bow. Charlie smiles and nudges his shoulder with her own. “Not dancing?” he asks her.</p>
<p>“Hundreds of nice, unbroken toes, I’d rather not risk it,” Charlie replies. Dean chuckles. “Besides, you’re dancing enough for the both of us, Fred Astaire.”</p>
<p>Dean shakes his head, and he’s surprised to notice that the nice feeling that was sizzling through his veins while dancing with Lisa has long evaporated. He remembers why he’s really at the dance tonight, and he glances over at the Angels to see they’re pairing off and taking to the floor. A sigh bubbles out of his throat.</p>
<p>“How come you stick around here, Red?” he asks Charlie.</p>
<p>Charlie matches Dean’s sigh with one of her own. “I got a runaway Dad and a Mom in a wheelchair who doesn’t remember my name,” she replies. “There’s no one else to stick around.”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“What’s the plan, Benny?” Christian is saying eagerly.</p>
<p>“We’ll let ‘em stew for a little,” Benny says with a shrug. “Everyone’s having a good time. What’s the point of rushing, eh, chief?”</p>
<p>“Sure, Benny,” Dean answers.</p>
<p>“What’re you asking him for?” Christian demands.</p>
<p>“Listen, punk –” Dean starts. He shoves himself off the wall and toward Christian.</p>
<p>“Cause maybe he’s the fucking lieutenant, man,” Victor cut in, hand finding Dean’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure, lieutenant,” Christian snorts. “He’ll show up in a nice crowded gymnasium, but where was he on the playground when we could ‘a used him, huh? And where will he be when it’s the rumble? He gonna show his pretty face there?”</p>
<p>“You got something you wanna say to me?” Dean demands. He ignores Victor’s warning squeeze on his shoulder. “Why don’t you say it to my fucking face?” Dean crowds up to Christian’s chest. The guy’s only a couple inches shorter than Dean, but Dean’s got more muscle on him. And he’s Goddamn sick of Christian, been cleaning up his messes for as long as he’s been a Hunter –</p>
<p>“How ‘bout I tell you that the Angels think you’re fucking yellow?” Christian says, voice low and dangerous. “And that maybe I’m starting to agree with ‘em. That what you wanna hear, <em>chief</em>?”</p>
<p>For a minute Dean thinks about letting Christian have it. Plowing his fist right into the bastard’s smug, ugly face. For a minute he thinks it’ll be worth it. But then Victor’s fingernails dig into his shoulder again, and Benny muscles his way between them.  </p>
<p>“Alright, alright,” Benny orders. “Cool it, you two. Christian, why don’t you take a walk?”</p>
<p>“Forget about it, Benny,” Dean says, and he shoots Christian one last dirty look before he turns. “I’m gonna take a smoke. Fucking fetch me when you need me.” He’s already on his way out. “You’re the one running this show.”</p>
<p>Dean crosses the gymnasium, dodging dancing elbows and knees, to the fire exit in the corner. Dean thinks about Dad. He thinks about Dad teaching him how to fight out on the street at five o’clock in the morning, dew heavy in the air and the chill of the morning soaking into Dean’s bones. The sun hadn’t even peaked its sickly rays over the row of high rises yet.</p>
<p><em>Hit me, son,</em> Dad said, and bared his face, even stooped so Dean’s seven-year-old arms could reach. And Dean could smell the whiskey on Dad’s breath, and he wondered if it was leftover from last night or if it was new from this morning. <em>Fucking hit me, cause if you don’t take whatever chance you’re given, you’re gonna lose it.</em></p>
<p><em>I don’t wanna hit you, Dad,</em> Dean said.</p>
<p>So, Dad hit Dean instead. Landed him flat on his ass. Gave him a bloody nose.</p>
<p><em>Don’t let ‘em think you’re weak, boy,</em> Dad said roughly, offering a hand up. You let ‘em think you’re weak – you let ‘em think you’re a coward – and you’ll never win. Gotta fight and gotta fight hard if you ever wanna win anything in this Godforsaken life, Deano.</p>
<p>Dean tugs his pack of cigarettes and his Zippo out of his back pocket. Takes a couple fumbles before he manages to catch the flame. Then he nearly bites clean through the filter because he’s clenching his jaw so hard.</p>
<p>The air out here doesn’t help him clear his head. It’s just as wet and hot as it was this afternoon. Jesus Christ, Dean hates summer in New York. He wishes he could be somewhere ‘cross the country. Maybe out in the Midwest where it ain’t so fucking humid all the damn time.</p>
<p>Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. There are sirens, too: the city’s constant call. Someone getting stuck or shot or raped. Some kid dead too early. Some homeless guy, prostitute, or junkie shipped off to Potter's field.</p>
<p>Dean’s fucking sick of it.</p>
<p>And sure. Yeah. Hell. Dean is a coward. He’s scared shitless that he’ll go back to jail. Scared shitless he’ll die a penniless drunk like Dad. Scared shitless he’ll die bloody in the mix. Scared shitless of that shiner Sammy came home with today. And scared shitless that maybe it won’t be Dean who dies bloody, but it’ll be Sammy, instead.</p>
<p>Dean sucks the last of his cigarette into his lungs, holds it for a couple seconds, and then lets the smoke out through his nostrils. He drops the filter and stubs the ember out with his toe.</p>
<p>“– I said,” says a voice right next to him, “do you have a light?”</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ!” Dean exclaims and jumps about a half a foot because the guy is right-fucking-there. Like so close to Dean’s ear, Dean felt his breath on his neck.</p>
<p>“No,” says the guy, looking puzzled.</p>
<p>“You heard of personal space, buddy?” Dean snaps.</p>
<p>“I apologize,” the guy shrugs. He’s young, about Dean’s age and a couple inches shorter. He’s got a shock of messy dark hair, and Dean can’t see his face all that well given that they’re standing in a dark alley. “I assumed you knew I was here. I’ve been asking for a light for some time.” He holds out an unlit cigarette as if to prove his point.</p>
<p>“Ah, shit, sorry,” Dean says. He tugs out his Zippo again, flicks it open, and a flame dances to life, briefly illuminating the guy's face.</p>
<p>His eyes are blue. And that’s about all Dean gets. Because that’s the only important thought in his mind. His eyes are blue. Lids are heavy and lazy. And, Goddamn, his eyes are blue. Clear sky blue. Break your heart blue. Frank Sinatra ‘Ol Blue Eyes kind a’ blue. Dean chokes on a wolf-whistle and manages to catch the end of the man’s cigarette without betraying the sudden tremble in his fingers.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” the guy says. He sucks in a breath of smoke. Dean watches how his cheeks inflate. And then he lets it out slowly. And Dean watches how his lips pucker a little around the stream.</p>
<p>Dean realizes he’s staring like an idiot, so he fishes out another cigarette and lights up.</p>
<p>“The, ah, party too much for you?” Dean says. All Dean can think about is the fact that he probably won’t get a chance to see those baby blues again unless the guy asks for another light, and the only way he’s gonna ask for another light is if Dean finds enough things to talk about to keep him there that long.</p>
<p>“I do not like dances,” the guy says unhappily.</p>
<p>“What?” Dean says. “You crazy or something? Dances are great. All the dames, man? Just a chance to get your hands all over ‘em.”</p>
<p>The man takes another drag from his cigarette, flicks the ash off the end, and says, “I do not dance.”</p>
<p>“Well,” Dean says, “there’s your problem, ain’t it? Didn’t anyone ever teach you?”</p>
<p>“My sister has attempted,” the guy says stiffly.</p>
<p>“Shit, man, your sister?” Dean says. “That ain’t cool.” He makes the decision on an impulse – a Goddamn stupid impulse, one that he knows could get him a punch in the nose, or worse. He chucks his half-finished cigarette and grinds it into the pavement.  </p>
<p>Dean’s belly is twisted up into a thousand knots, but he swallows hard and bats the guy’s cigarette out of his hand.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon –” the guy objects.</p>
<p>“Relax, man,” Dean drawls. “Just go with it, huh? I’m tryna give you a hand.” Then he grabs the guy’s hand in his own, and the man’s arm is limp with shock.</p>
<p>“Now, hear that?” Dean pauses to gulp past the sudden dryness in his throat. The guy’s palm is clammy against his own. Dean tunes in to the faint strains of music coming through the gym’s hopper windows. It’s a slow, big band piece with – speak of the devil – the chairman of the board, himself, crooning along with brass, percussion, and strings.</p>
<p>“This here is a slow song, so that’s real simple,” Dean explains. “And you gotta learn the guy part if you ever wanna do it proper. So, your hand goes on my waist – on my <em>waist</em>,” Dean says firmly, and snatches the guys other hand, putting it on his own hip. “Keep the thumb on her waistband unless you wanna get frisky, but that’s lesson number two.”</p>
<p>And Dean chuckles, but the sound dies when the man doesn’t respond. But his silence doesn’t seem threatening. It just seems a little confused. Maybe patient, like he’s just waiting for more instructions.</p>
<p>“And my hand goes on your shoulder, like this,” Dean says, landing his palm on the guy’s shoulder, where he can feel knotted, firm muscle under his fingers. Dean clears his throat. “Cause I’m the girl in the situation, and all. Of course, the height difference is usually gonna be switched, unless you like tall broads.”</p>
<p>The guy is looking at his shoes. And Dean tries not to wish he’d look back up. Tries not to think about how much he wants to see those eyes again.</p>
<p>“And you don’t gotta worry about fancy steps or nothing,” Dean says. He doesn’t know when he started whispering. He thinks he might have been for a while. “Just kind a’ sway back and forth from the hips. It looks pretty enough. And the – the point is to be close, you know?”</p>
<p>Sinatra croons through the thick, hades type of heat in the air: <em>In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble. They're only made of clay.</em></p>
<p>And then the guy finally stops studying his shoes and looks up. His blue eyes catch Dean’s green. And they’re standing too close. Dean can see the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks. Can see the faint stubble on his chin. Can see a curl of his dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. Way too fucking close.</p>
<p>
  <em>But our love is here to stay.</em>
</p>
<p>And the song ends. In its wake, the silence thrums like a second heartbeat.</p>
<p>It’s time to let go now. It’s definitely time to let go. It’s weird that Dean hasn’t let go yet. Weird that this guy hasn’t let go yet. And Dean can feel the man’s thumb on his hip, right above his belt.</p>
<p>Dean clears his throat. The guy startles a little. Takes a step back. His hands fall away from Dean, leaving a damp patch of sweat on Dean’s waist and his left hand jarringly empty.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” the man says softly. “That was very – helpful.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Dean coughs. Tries again. “Great, man.”</p>
<p>Another song starts up inside the gym. Something a little faster, keeping up with the tattoo of Dean’s heart.</p>
<p>“I’m, ah,” Dean licks his lips. He can’t help but flick his eyes downward, sees as the guy probably subconsciously mirrors Dean’s motion and runs his tongue over his own mouth. His lips are chapped, probably feel rough. “I’m Dean.”</p>
<p>“Dean,” the guy echoes. “My name is Castiel. Castiel Nova.”</p>
<p>“Son of a <em>bitch</em>,” Dean says. He leaps away, and then whatever kind of magical moment they’d been sucked into is shattered. “You – fuck.”</p>
<p>The guy – Castiel. Castiel <em>Nova</em> – looks shocked and, God, a little bit hurt. “Did I…say something I should not have?”</p>
<p>“Man, oh man,” Dean says, “Don’t you know –?” Dean sputters because clearly Castiel does <em>not</em> know who he is. “I’m <em>Dean Winchester</em>, buddy. You’re Castiel <em>Nova</em>. You and I –” and then Dean suddenly wonders if this is some kind of elaborate trap. If Michael and Luca are going to jump him right here in the alley.</p>
<p>“You know what,” Dean says. “I’m just gonna go. Okay?” He holds up his hands to shoulder height. “I didn’t touch you. You didn’t touch me. We’re fair and square. And we can stick each other some other time. High school’s neutral territory –”</p>
<p>Dean is so <em>stupid</em>. How couldn’t he have seen it before? Michael and Luca’s little brother Castiel. Of course, Castiel’s the elusive brother. The one that no one really sees around. And, sure, he’s wearing a tan jacket instead of the Angel’s typical black. But now that Dean knows to look for it, he recognizes the guy as the one who came in with Anna.</p>
<p>“Neutral territory….” Castiel feels the words around in his mouth like he’s tasting them. And then, slowly, understanding dawns across his face, and those sharply blue eyes narrow in – it’s still not exactly outward aggression. It’s more like curiosity. “You are a Hunter?”</p>
<p>“Hell yeah, I’m a Hunter!” Dean says. His palms are still sweaty. His heart is still going one-hundred miles an hour inside his chest, but it’s not the excited, forbidden feeling of intrigue while they were dancing. Now it’s fear: plain and simple. “And you’re a fucking Angel –”</p>
<p>Dean turns on his heel. Because it’s self-explanatory. And he needs to get the hell out of this alley before Benny comes looking for him to start the war counsel. Or before another Angel wanders by and decides neutral territory ain’t a good enough excuse for finally getting Dean Winchester alone in a dark alley.</p>
<p>“Wait!” Castiel’s narrow fingers close around Dean’s wrist, and Dean’s so ready for a fight – always ready for a fight – that he just assumes Castiel’s gonna deck him. So he spins around in a ridiculous parody of jitterbugging with Lisa and raises his fist –</p>
<p>But Castiel drops him. Baby blues opened wide in surprise and honest appeal. “I am not,” he says despite Dean’s raised fist. “I’m not an Angel. My older brothers – they are, not me.”</p>
<p>“What?” Dean breathes. Because Hunter is a Hunter and Angel is an Angel. It’s family. And it’s that simple. It has to be.</p>
<p>“I understand that my brothers and your friends, they do not get along,” Castiel says. Dean snorts, because, sure, let’s understate things. But Castiel continues, and he sounds a little desperate, a little like he’s never put this into words before and he really needs Dean to understand. “But I do not care about that. I do not want to fight with you. I would like –”</p>
<p>And Dean wants him to finish that sentence. Sweet Jesus, he has never wanted someone to finish a sentence more. Because <em>what do you want, Castiel? What do you want to do with me, if not fight?</em></p>
<p>“Dean!” The shout comes from the end of the alley. Dean’s heart nearly claws itself out of his throat and splatters all over the pavement.</p>
<p>It’s Victor. He’s just a shadowy figure now, passing through shafts of light from the gymnasium’s windows, but he’s getting closer, and he can probably see that Dean’s talking to someone, and soon he’ll see that Dean’s talking to Castiel –</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Dean says, tries to sound urgent instead of gruff. He puts a hand on Castiel’s chest. He can feel the other guy’s heartbeat. He remembers dancing with him, almost flush, chest to chest, face to face. “Get the fuck away before he sees –”</p>
<p>Castiel’s eyes widen in comprehension, and then he spins away. Gets swallowed by the shadows so quickly it’s almost like he sprouted wings and took flight.</p>
<p>“Who you talking to?” Victor says, stopping a couple feet away, puzzled frown on his face.</p>
<p>“Just some high school kid,” Dean says easily. “Wanted a light.”</p>
<p>Victor nods once, absorbing the lie. “Right, well. Come on. Get your ass back inside.”</p>
<p>“Right,” Dean says. He follows Victor back down the alley and around the corner to the entrance of the gym. Dean is in a dream. The world around him is different, somehow. Covered in a thin film of fog. But, at the same time, everything is more intense. The colors of the girls’ dresses are more vibrant. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling strikingly bright like the sun. The tacky streamers and balloons taped to the walls are the most elegant things Dean has ever seen.</p>
<p>The faces around him are covered in mist. There’s Benny’s voice, and Michael’s angry brow, and Luca’s sneering lips, and Victor’s firm hand on his arm, almost like he’s afraid Dean will drift away. Up up up into the cloudless blue sky. So blue, he can drown in it.</p>
<p>“War counsel, Hunters and Angels,” Benny tells Michael.</p>
<p>“The pleasure will be all mine,” Michael says with one of those ridiculous bows he’s so fond of. And Dean can see bits and pieces of Castiel in his face – the nose is the same and the eyebrows. But, compared to Castiel, Michael is a bland copy. Like the stone carving of a real-life model, chiseled by an artist who’s never held the tools before. There is none of Castiel’s intensity in Michael’s face. None of his life.</p>
<p>“Outside?” Benny asks.</p>
<p>“We won’t leave our ladies alone with you scum,” Luca spits.</p>
<p>“Midnight then,” Benny says.</p>
<p>“The playground,” Michael says.</p>
<p>“Hell no,” Christian butts in.</p>
<p>“The Roadhouse,” Benny says.</p>
<p>Michael narrows his eyes, thinking. He exchanges a look with his brother, who shrugs. “Fine,” Michael says at last.</p>
<p>“Right,” Benny says tightly.</p>
<p>Michael jerks his head sharply to the left, and Luca falls in line behind him. They disappear into the throng of dancing bodies.</p>
<p>Benny turns to clap Dean on the shoulder. He’s grinning. The kind of grin that makes him look like a boy, again. All round, rosy cheeks and bright light in his eyes. Before he got that scar above his right eyebrow. Before he’d beaten his fists bloody, black, and blue on other boys’ bodies.</p>
<p>Castiel’s voice rebounds inside Dean’s skull. <em>I do not want to fight with you</em>.</p>
<p>“Come on, Chief,” Benny says gleefully. “Let’s spread the word.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Act One: Scene Five, Castiel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for a brief disparaging term regarding a traumatic brain injury.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Castiel</em>, Dean thinks, what a stupid-sounding name. Like something in a song, maybe. Or like one of those Latin prayers the priests would mumble when Sam and Dean got dragged to church once in a blue moon if Dad was sober enough to care.  </p>
<p><em>Castiel</em>. But it’s kinda pretty, too, Dean can admit. Soft and smooth. And he tries it out on his tongue, real quiet even though there’s no one around to hear him on the dark and empty streets. “Castiel.”</p>
<p>Unbidden, he thinks about whispering that name across Castiel’s sandpaper dry lips. <em>Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.</em></p>
<p>It’s not like Dean’s never thought about it before. Wondered what it would be like to feel scruff rub against his cheeks, chafe the inside of his thighs raw. How different the firm, hard body of a man would feel in comparison to a girl’s soft, yielding curves. And the gruff morning-after voice. The heavy brows and thick, steady hands.</p>
<p>Dean walks with no destination in mind. Just meandering, like he used to do after Dad got home, drunk as a skunk and meaner than the devil, after he finally passed out on the shabby sofa. Dean and Sammy’d just head out the door and wander. That was before all this Hunter and Angel crap. Before Dean even really knew Benny. They were both just kids. Just kids and the world looked a helluva lot kinder.</p>
<p>He’s got Dad’s age-worn leather jacket slung over one shoulder. It’s still too hot to wear it, and the shirt he wore to the dance is stained with sweat under the arms and down the back.</p>
<p>It’s about twenty minutes, maybe, since Dean left Benny at the dance, muttering some excuse about checking on Sammy before the Roadhouse at midnight. But, instead, Dean’s just walking. Sammy’ll be fine; he’s a smart kid, despite what happened earlier today, and he knows better than to leave the apartment before Dean gets home.</p>
<p>There’s something peaceful about the streets after dark, with the occasional loan cab or flare of a cigarette from an alley. It’s calm and familiar. Even if it’s an illusion.  </p>
<p>Dean knows it’s only an illusion. He knows behind closed doors men in tobacco-stained wife-beaters are getting loaded and wailing on their sweethearts and kids. He knows there are hookers on the street corners, waiting to get pulled into cabs or lured up to hotel rooms, and maybe dumbed, mangled and bloody, in the river the next morning. He knows about the dirty needles hidden in dumpsters and the broken beer bottles littering the ground under jungle gyms.</p>
<p>Goddamn, Dean needs to get out of this dump. Needs to get Sammy out of this dump.</p>
<p>Without really thinking about it, Dean’s wandered into Angel territory. He catches sight of graffiti on a wall: two monstrous, ash-black wings.</p>
<p>But he’s not worried. One loan Hunter, while usually easy pickings, won’t be a target tonight. Not with the promise of a war counsel at midnight. There probably won’t even be Angels on the prowl, not when they’re too busy mustering the garrison for the meeting. Dean won’t even be noticed.</p>
<p>He’s got a vague idea about where the Nova’s apartment is. And he’s not sure why his feet carry him there. All he knows is that he’s suddenly between two apartment buildings, the metal scaffolding of fire escapes climbing high on both sides.</p>
<p>There’s a light in one of the windows, dim and sputtering through the curtains. Dean pauses for a minute and just watches, ignoring the renewed thumping of his pulse, trying not to wonder where Castiel ended up after that alley – if he went back into the gymnasium or maybe went back home. Maybe to his bedroom. Maybe to think about Dean and remember how it felt, dancing in the dark together, no one there to see them.</p>
<p>The curtain stirs. A head with messy hair emerges to lift open the window.</p>
<p>Dean moves without thinking. “Castiel! Cas!”</p>
<p>Castiel looks up, squinting into the darkness.</p>
<p>“Down here!” Dean says, just below a shout. </p>
<p>Castiel’s eyes lower to the ground. “Dean!” He says, and Dean might imagine it, but he sounds pleased.</p>
<p>“Come down,” Dean says. Not sure why he wants Castiel to come down. Just knowing that he wants it. He just wants.</p>
<p>“I can’t,” Castiel frowns. “Michael told me to watch Anna and Alfie.”</p>
<p>“They won’t know,” Dean says, and he’s smiling. He can’t help it. There’s something sweet about Castiel frowning, about him worrying about his siblings. It reminds Dean a little of how he feels about Sammy.</p>
<p>“I don’t want to risk them noticing I’m gone,” Castiel says.</p>
<p>“Fine then,” Dean’s already clambering onto a dumpster. He tosses the leather jacket onto the landing ahead of him and then reaches for the fire escape ladder that dangles ten feet off the ground. “I’ll come up.”</p>
<p>He leaps and snatches hold of the lowest rung, pulls himself up, and doesn’t look down. Tries not to think about how much he doesn’t like heights. But he’s snuck up and down fire escapes enough times to know how to do it right, and soon enough he’s racing up the last few flights until he’s standing on the landing outside Cas’s window.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Cas furrows his eyebrows, tilts his head a little to the side like a bird, and Dean could really get used to that faux-grumpy tone he pulls out when he’s seemingly puzzled but intrigued at the same time and frustrated about the warring emotions.</p>
<p>“Wanted to see you, didn’t I?” Dean says easily. It’s true, but it ain’t <em>weird</em> or anything. Dean just wants a friend, is all. It can get a little lonely without the Hunters, with only Bobby at the garage during the day and Sammy at night. And what Cas said, about not wanting to fight, it’s stuck inside Dean’s head now. He can’t get it out until he finds out what Cas meant by it.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Dean offers his hand. Cas peers at it for a moment like he’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do before he decides to latch ahold, and Dean pulls him through the open window onto the landing.</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t you be afraid of this side of the neighborhood?” Cas asks him, sounding, if Dean can believe it, a little concerned.</p>
<p>“You worried for me, Cas?” Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.</p>
<p>Amazingly, Cas blushes and looks away from Dean’s face. “I’m worried for everyone,” he confesses earnestly.</p>
<p>The playful atmosphere dissolves behind Cas’s confession. Dean hesitates before he puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder, just brushes his fingers across his sleeve, and it’s a little like an electric shock. Tingles all the way up his arm and into his chest. He wonders if Cas felt it, too, if maybe that’s why Dean can feel Cas’s muscles tense under Dean’s touch.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about me, buddy,” Dean says. “I ain’t afraid of anything.”</p>
<p>Cas smiles faintly, chances another glance at Dean’s face, and Dean wishes he’d look at him full-on. He wants to catch another glimpse of those eyes. Dean suddenly wishes fiercely they could face each other in the daylight, that they didn’t have to be afraid of being caught together.</p>
<p>It’s not as if they’re even doing anything especially clandestine. Simply being Hunters and Angels is enough.</p>
<p>“What about you,” Dean says to cover the silence. “Ain’t you worried your mom or pop are gonna wonder who you’ve got out here?”</p>
<p>Cas’s face falls. “My parents are both dead.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Dean says. <em>Way to go, Winchester.</em> Always putting his damn foot in his mouth. “Sorry. I, ah, didn’t mean….” He trails off awkwardly. There’s a painful tug in his chest, and he wants to say anything, do anything, to make Cas stop looking so upset.</p>
<p>“My, ah, parents are dead, too,” he admits before he can think about how much he dislikes talking about his family. “Our apartment caught fire when we were little. Mom didn’t get out. And, ah, Dad died a couple years ago.”</p>
<p>Dean stops himself before he can tell Cas how Dad died. He doesn’t need to tell him how he and Sammy would leave the apartment to walk around the block, hang around the playground, be anywhere but inside the same room when Dad got that bad. Didn’t have to tell Cas how, when they got back, late at night to a silent apartment, they found Dad dead on the couch, heart stopped because of alcohol poisoning, vomit clogging his mouth. Didn’t need to tell Cas that Dad wouldn’t be dead now if Dean hadn’t left, if he’d stuck around to make sure he kept breathing.</p>
<p>“My father came to America with my three older brothers when I was only eight years old.” It’s Cas’s turn to break the silence. His voice is soft and soothing. “He planned to establish business here and send the money for my mother, Anna, Alfie, and I. But he died before he could do so. Instead, my brothers worked for our uncles. Four years later, my mother brought the rest of us over. Alfie was only five years old. Mama died during the voyage. We all became very sick and we had to be quarantined at Ellis Island. We were afraid we would not be let in. But Michael, Luca, and Gabriel were able to get us out.”</p>
<p>“Gabriel?” Dean asks. “There’s another one?” Maybe it’s kind of a rude question, but Cas just smiles again, a little sadly.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Cas answers. “He is two years older than I. But he left a year ago. He wanted to go West like the cowboys. Like John Wayne.”</p>
<p>“The Duke!” Dean replies. He grins, recalling all the times he’s snuck Sammy into the theater to catch the latest movie. “Damn. He had good taste, at least.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Cas responds thoughtfully. “Although Michael always complained that Gabriel was tasteless.”</p>
<p>“So,” Dean prompts him. “You gonna follow him? Gonna check out the empty prairies and open skies?” It seems impossible to believe that there are places in the world unbroken by the cityscape. Places that aren’t soaked with the smell of gasoline, piss, and marijuana. Enough space to just keep going, nothing in the way.</p>
<p>Open roads. Dean’ll have to see it to believe it.</p>
<p>Cas squares his jaw. He’s looking over the railing of the fire escape, and Dean wishes he’d look at Dean. Unbidden, Dean wishes they could stand closer, stand like they had been when they were dancing.</p>
<p>“We don’t know where he is,” Cas says. “He has not written. Michael told him not to.”</p>
<p>“No offense, Cas,” Dean says. “But your brother’s an ass.” Maybe it’s a test, to see whether or not Cas defends Michael, but Cas just shakes his head.</p>
<p>“I think I know this,” he says. “But I don’t think it’s his fault. America asked him to become hard, so he became hard.”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t answer. It reminds him too much of Dad wailing on him until Dean finally hit back. It reminds him of teaching Sammy how to throw a punch, how to rotate his arm so he wouldn’t break his wrist, how to get around at night without getting tempted by dark alleys, how to keep the bullies at school from stealing his lunch money. <em>Hit ‘em fast and hard and use your speed to your advantage. Don’t let ‘em pick on you even though you’re short stuff, short stuff.</em></p>
<p>“Thank you for teaching me to dance,” Cas says at random. His voice does something funny to Dean’s guts. Gets them all twisted up and warm. “I don’t think I was able to say so before we were interrupted.”</p>
<p>Dean scratches at the back of his neck. His face suddenly pulses with heat. “It’s, ah, no problem, Cas,” Dean says. “Always a pleasure when it’s Sinatra.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Cas agrees. Dean can see that Cas is smiling, now, even though Dean can still only see half of his face in the uneven lighting. “I also like his music.”</p>
<p>Dean clears his throat. He has to look away, and he thinks about something else to say. He doesn’t really understand what’s happening, right now. Part of him is screaming at high volume to get the hell out while he still can. Another part of him doesn’t want to leave. Wants, in fact, to stay forever. </p>
<p>“You think he’s really got mafia ties?” Dean says.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Cas shrugs. “I understand this is an Italian…is it stereotype? But I do not believe we all have mafia ties.”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure,” Dean backpedals quickly. “I mean, I didn’t mean to offend you, or anything.”</p>
<p>“I am not offended,” Cas answers. He turns his head, gives Dean one of those genuine smiles, lips spread wide, showing off his teeth and a little bit of his gums. His nose wrinkles a little.</p>
<p>“It’s where kids like us end up, anyway,” Dean says. It’s true. He knows plenty of places owned by the Italian and Irish mobs. It was mostly the Westies around these parts, led by Crowley and his ilk. Dean knew well enough to stay out of all that. The Hunters were small potatoes when it came to the drugs, sex, and gambling of organized crime. He knew Christian wanted to weasel his way inside it. Dean figured that’s where Michael and Luca would end up eventually, too. Playing thug to some big wig crime lord.</p>
<p>“You don’t think there’s any way of getting out?” Cas asks, sounding a little defeated, sounding a little like Sammy when he was little and scared of the gaping darkness spilling from his closet, when he crawled in Dean’s bed at night and begged him to make the monsters go away.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Dean says, and he laughs sardonically, “sometimes you get killed.”</p>
<p>Cas looks honestly alarmed, and Dean stifles the brief flare of jealousy that comes when he realizes Cas is probably thinking about Michael and Luca, and not Dean, himself. “Does that happen often?” Cas says.</p>
<p>Dean shrugs. He pushes against the mournful wave that threatens to spill over his shoulders, creeping into his chest like ice water. He doesn’t want to feel like shit, right now. Not when it’s just him and Cas.</p>
<p>“Not too often. Mostly bloodying ‘em up is enough. It’s only sometimes that something real bad happens.” Dean’s seen one or two kids get stuck and bleed out on the street afterward. And last year, a nice kid named Garth got brained by a Wolf. Landed his ass in some kind a’ specialist hospital his mom had to shell out a fortune for, and he still came out more than half an idiot.</p>
<p>“All depends on how things go down,” Dean continues. “Blades or guns, and you’ll be in trouble. Skin, and people will probably make it out alright.”</p>
<p>“And the rumble?” Cas asks calculatingly. “Will that be blades or guns or skin?”</p>
<p>“That’s what we decide at midnight,” Dean replies. “When, where, and how. Hunters called it, so ball’s in your brothers’ court, now.”</p>
<p>“This is a sport’s term?” Cas says, nodding seriously. “Like slam dunk or touchdown?”</p>
<p>The laughter that bubbles out of Dean’s throat catches him unaware. It's startlingly warm and bright inside his chest. “Yeah, Cas. It’s a sport’s term.”</p>
<p>Castiel looks momentarily pleased with himself before concern ghosts back across his face. “Will you be able to sway the meeting? Convince them to go with skin?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Dean shakes his head slowly. Cas looks so Goddamn earnest, it makes Dean feel a little like someone punched him under the ribs. “I can try, I guess.”</p>
<p>“Please do,” Cas implores him, all wide-eyed and pouting lips. Goddamn, those lips. “Promise me, please, Dean.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Dean’s voice slips out of his mouth in a wheeze. He has to remind himself to breathe. He hopes he doesn’t look like some kind of moron. “Sure, Cas. I promise.”</p>
<p>Cas nods once and falls silent, evidently satisfied. Evidently putting his trust in Dean. And Dean doesn’t know what to do with that: someone trusting him so unequivocally. He doesn’t think even Sammy trusts him like that anymore, not since he was a little kid. Sure, Sammy trusts Dean to look after him, to bring home food, and to keep a roof over their heads, but this trust is something deeper. Something almost like faith.</p>
<p>“Can I tell you a secret?” Dean says.</p>
<p>Cas’s eyes glint in the darkness. It’s too shadowy to clearly see the blue, but it’s close enough. “Of course,” Cas says.</p>
<p>“I got this car, see?” Dean braces himself against the cool brick of the apartment behind him. He crosses his ankles. “She’s a real beaut.’ Except she got hit by a train or something cause now she’s in the scrapyard. But once I get ‘er fixed up, she’ll be a real screamer. And then me and Sammy are gonna get out of here. Not looking back. Not ever”</p>
<p>“It is a good dream,” Cas says warmly. He turns so he’s leaning with one shoulder against the window. Facing Dean, now, head-on.</p>
<p>“You think?” Dean says. He swivels his head. He’s just as close to Cas as they were in the alley. Close enough to count eyelashes. Don’t eyelashes have something to do with wishes? Pick one up, close your eyes, and blow. “So, what about you?” Dean licks his lips. He feels the small ridges on his lip under his tongue, the little flaps of skin he’s worried there from chewing on his lip when he’s nervous. He thinks about what Cas’s lips would feel like. “You got any dreams?”</p>
<p>Cas looks away for a second, just long enough to peer through the open window. There’s a bed in there, Dean can see, and a bunch of books and loose paper all over the floor.</p>
<p>“I think I would like to be a writer,” Cas says. “Like Ernest Hemmingway. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954. And he is an adventurer. He travels the world and writes about what he sees, and how these things make him feel. I think I would like to do that, too.”</p>
<p>“Ain’t too bad a dream, yourself,” Dean says.</p>
<p>“I worry my English won’t be good enough,” Cas adds.</p>
<p>Dean grins easily. “You talk pretty good English. Better ‘an me,” he reassures Cas. Cas’s eyebrows perk up in the middle in a tiny, hopeful peak. The corner of his mouth ticks upward.</p>
<p>It’s silent. Dean can hear Cas breathing, it’s so silent. Dean thinks about how easy it would be to reach out his hand, run his palm down the prickly, faint dusting of scruff on Cas’s chin. Maybe pull him a little closer. Lean into the space between them until they’re breathing the same air. And brush their mouths together. The faintest touch of lips against lips.</p>
<p>And Dean ain’t <em>queer</em>. He ain’t like those creeps in back alleys who bad-touch little kids. He ain’t like the butcher he had to warn Sammy to stay away from.</p>
<p>But kissing Cas, maybe that won’t be so wrong.</p>
<p>“You have many freckles,” Cas whispers.</p>
<p>“Wanna hear something crazy?” Dean breathes.</p>
<p>“Yes, please,” Cas says. His tongue, just the tip, sneaks out of his mouth and runs along the edge of his bottom lip, leaving behind a sparkling sheen of saliva.</p>
<p>“I been having this dream, see?” Dean says. His chest is tight. It’s hard to breathe. “Every night the same dream, about this shadow, always flying just ahead of me. And I wake up with this feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I’m waiting for something to happen. But it ain’t dread, or anything. It’s anticipation, I guess. Just waiting for something good to happen.”</p>
<p>“Do you believe in miracles, Dean?” Cas answers.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says. “Tonight, I think I do.”</p>
<p>“Only tonight?” Cas says.</p>
<p>Dean swallows. “I ain’t had any reason to believe in them before.”</p>
<p>But then something happens. Something shivers between them, and the moment breaks: a hairline fracture that threatens to become a fissure. Dean can feel it tugging against his lungs.</p>
<p>Cas lets out a slow breath, and it trembles just a little. He pulls back a fraction of an inch. “I think I should go.”</p>
<p>Dean tries to swallow back the bubble of disappointment that pops inside his stomach. He doesn’t understand how he managed to mess this up.</p>
<p>“Can I –” he pushes forward, fingers tingling at the phantom feel of Cas’s skin. But Cas is probably right. And it’s probably late, maybe close to midnight. Dean needs to hurry if he wants to get to the Roadhouse in time. “Can I see you again?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Cas says, eyebrows dropping in uncertainty. His front teeth peek out against his lip: he chews his lips, too, when he’s uncertain.  </p>
<p>“Tomorrow,” Dean says in a rush. “At dusk – after work.”</p>
<p>“I – alright,” Cas says, still frowning.</p>
<p>“Hey, Cas?” Dean says.</p>
<p>“Yes, Dean?”</p>
<p>“How do you say ‘goodnight’ in Italian?”</p>
<p>“<em>Buona notte</em>,” Cas whispers.</p>
<p>“<em>Buona notte</em>,” Dean repeats.</p>
<p>“<em>Buonanotte amore mio</em>,” Cas says, already ducking back through the window.</p>
<p>“What’s that last part mean?” Dean asks.</p>
<p>Cas gives him a funny smile, kinda crooked and closed-lipped. He puts a hand on the windowsill, ready to close it behind him. “I do not think I should tell you that, Dean.”</p>
<p>Something warm blossoms through Dean’s blood. The fissure between them suddenly doesn’t seem so far.</p>
<p>“Then you’ll have to tell me tomorrow,” Dean says, and he gives Cas the smile that makes the girls drop their panties at a snap of his fingers.</p>
<p>Cas blinks his big, wonderful blue eyes at him, and he doesn’t even look phased. “Tomorrow, Dean.”</p>
<p>“Tomorrow,” Dean repeats, grinning like an idiot. Then he turns; he takes the stairs two at a time back down the fire escape. He swings off the bottom rung once he reaches the last landing, and he lands in a crouch on the pavement.</p>
<p>He straightens up, and he can still feel Cas’s eyes on the back of his head, so he turns around, jogs backward and tosses a hand into the air. Cas doesn’t send him a wave in reply, but his eyes follow him out of the alley, follow him long after he turns at the street, dodges between the checkerboard spotlights of the streetlamps, running down the sidewalk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Act One: Scene Six, A Social Disease</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam’s got one hand pillowed under his head and the other gripping a <em>Superman</em> comic. Dean’s always liked <em>Batman</em> better, said he was Batman and Sam was Boy Wonder, but Sam likes <em>Superman</em>. Likes how he doesn’t need any fancy-ass gadgets or gizmos, no switchblades or atomic ray guns to take down the bad guys. He told Dean this once and Dean snapped at him to “marry him or something, jeez.”</p><p>Sam flicks to the next page in the comic and then nearly jumps out of his skin when a rock clatters against his window. Sam flings himself off his bed, comic spinning across the floor. He heaves open his window and peers into the darkness, heart still ping-ponging around his ribcage.</p><p>“Winchester!” says a voice, and Sam squints until he can make out two figures: one tall and lanky with messy, long hair, and the other shorter with whiskers that really need to be trimmed.</p><p>“What the hell do you want?” Sam challenges, voice rougher than he meant it to be.</p><p>“Roadhouse, come on!” Chuck beckons.</p><p>“Dean ain’t here,” Sam says sullenly. “You got the wrong Winchester.”</p><p>“We’re here for you, numskull,” Ash says. And far be it for Ash to call someone else a numskull. “Get your ass down here.”</p><p>Sam hesitates, because Dean told him to stay put. But Dean ain’t here. And it’s not like he can stop Sam from showing up at the war council if Sam’s already there. Dean won’t risk looking like a fool if he’s in front of the Angels.</p><p>“You a Hunter, ain’t you?” Chuck says, and that does it.</p><p>“Hang on,” Sam calls. He slams his window shut. His pulse is racing. He fumbles a little pulling a jacket over his shirt, and then he’s gotta deal with the stupid, frayed laces on his shoes. And then he’s tumbling out of his and Dean’s shared bedroom in their miniscule railroad apartment. He’s skidding through the kitchen then through the sitting room and then out the front door, slamming it so hard the jamb rattles. He clatters down the four flights of stairs, shoulders open the street door, and then nearly plows over Chuck, who’s standing right there.</p><p>“Shit – where’s the fucking fire?” Chuck yelps, straightening himself on Ash’s shoulder.</p><p>“Let’s rattle, kiddos,” Ash says.</p><p>Out of all the Hunters, Sam probably knows Chuck and Ash the least. Ash is a quieter, more thoughtful guy who Sam’s always thought was secretly pretty smart, maybe smart enough to go to college, only you couldn’t really tell because he was nearly constantly high. Chuck is a short, stocky guy who used to always brag about the threesome he once had with a couple of prostitutes before Christian told him snidely that the only reason he never shut up about it was because he could only get some if he paid for it.</p><p>Sam’s never had – like, sure, he’s <em>kissed</em> plenty of girls, and the girl he went with to the Sadie Hawkins dance let him put his hand under her bra, but he’s never gone <em>all the way</em>. Unbidden, he thinks of Ruby. Dean called her a skank, so maybe that means she’s easy. But Sam doesn’t care whether or not she’s easy. He doesn’t want to – well, he does want to – but that isn’t the <em>point</em>.</p><p>“I think it’s gone be zip guns,” Ash says, continuing a conversation he must have been having with Chuck. He snaps both wrists in the air, imitating gun muzzles with his fingers. “Pa-pow!”</p><p>Sam stops himself from startling, but only just. He wonders what kind of damage a zip gun could cause. How much blood there’d be.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Chuck answers, “only cause you wanna show off all your crummy inventions.”</p><p>“Like hell,” Ash says. “I’m Dr. Badass.”</p><p>“Maybe it’ll be pipes,” Chuck says conversationally. “Or rubber hoses. What you think, Sammy-boy?”</p><p>“I dunno,” Sam says uncomfortably. “Maybe it’ll be knives, you think?”</p><p>They round a street corner and the squad car is just there, lights off and parked.</p><p>“Shit,” Ash says, long and slow.</p><p>The door pops open, and Officer Deacon climbs out. “Evening, boys.”</p><p>“Evening, Officer,” Chuck parrots back.</p><p>“Evening,” Sam mutters.</p><p>Deacon ambles over, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, dark hair under his cap. “Hey, you,” he points to Sam suddenly.</p><p>“Me, sir?” Sam squeaks and wonders why the cops always pick on him. </p><p>“Yeah, you,” Deacon rolls his eyes. “You gonna answer me, or not?” </p><p>Chuck pipes up, “His momma told ‘im never to talk back to a cop.”</p><p>“Alright, wise guys,” Deacon starts, scowling, but he trails off and turns back to Sam. “You Dean Winchester’s kid brother?”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Sam swallows and nods his head. Keeps nodding until he’s a little afraid he looks like that Mickey Mantle bobblehead Dean got him a few Christmases back. Dad hated the Yankees with a passion and would have pitched a fit if he ever found it in their house, but Dean’s always bent the rules where Sam’s concerned.</p><p>“Yeah, well, tell him he and his friend Lafitte ain’t as smart as they think,” Deacon says, forehead wrinkled with something almost like concern. “You tell ‘im we know you kids were cooking something up at the dance tonight. You tell him Campbell’s got his scent, you hear?”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Sam says faintly, feeling every ounce of blood rush out of his head and pool in his feet. He feels kind of sick to his stomach.</p><p>“Right,” Deacon nods curtly.</p><p>The radio in the squad car buzzes with an incoming call, and the second officer in the driver’s seat cranes his neck out the window, “Gotta go, Deacon.”</p><p>“Right, Doug,” he replies. “You kids get on home, you hear me?” Deacon tells them over his shoulder, and he gets back into the car. He slams the door behind him. The car pulls away from the curb, “And stop wandering the damn street!”</p><p>The cruiser pulls away, and Ash jumps into the street after it, waving his hands over his head, “Hey, hey! You forgot to say goodbye!”  </p><p>Chuck laughs faintly at Ash’s antics, but Sam is working hard on not throwing up the macaroni and cheese Dean made him for dinner. He silently watches the squad car’s taillights disappear down the street.</p><p>“You think that’s true?” Sam whispers. “You think Campbell knows about the rumble?”</p><p>“Ah, shucks, Sammy-boy,” Ash says with a grin. “Grandpa Campbell’s crazy as they come. He ain’t anything to worry about.”</p><p>Sam doesn’t answer. No one but Benny and Sam know the full truth about what went down four months ago, when Campbell dragged Dean into the stationhouse – and maybe they don’t even know everything. Dean can be pretty tight-lipped about stuff when he wants to be.</p><p>“I ain’t afraid of Officer Deacon,” Chuck says, and spits on the sidewalk. A little bit of spittle gets caught in his whiskers, and he surreptitiously wipes it away on the back of his hand. They continue on their way as if they hadn’t been stopped.</p><p>“They only trying ‘a reform us and all,” Ash adds. “Stop us from being delinquents on account of we all come from trash households.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Chuck agrees. “We don’t need jail, we need a headshrinker.”</p><p>“We’re just psychologically disturbed,” Ash nods along.</p><p>“We all know <em>you’re</em> psychologically disturbed,” Sam says.</p><p>“That-ah-boy, Sammy,” Ash says in delight. He pulls Chuck close enough to sling an arm around his shoulder.  </p><p>“It ain’t our fault we’re punks,” Chuck continues. “It’s our upbringing – our pops are drunks and our moms are junkies. Sister’s a whore and brother’s wearing dresses. We ain’t lousy, no good hoodlums. We’re just misunderstood.”</p><p>“It’s a social disease, see?” Ash says philosophically, and tosses his other arm around Sam’s shoulder, tugs him tight against his side, and the three of them walk abreast down the sidewalk. Sam’s close enough that he can smell the trace of marijuana on the guy’s breath. “It’s the system’s at fault, not us. It’s all about wealth, you know? It ain’t distributed fair. So, we end up at the bottom of the barrel. Barrel full ‘o rotten apples.”</p><p>“Careful, boy,” Chuck laughs. “You’re starting to sound like them dirty pinkos.”</p><p>“The Red Scare is serious business,” Ash says gravely. “We don’t know who could secretly be a Russki. Your aunt? Your neighbor? Damn shame what happened to dear old Julius and Ethel. Such a lovely couple. Never suspected a thing. No sir, not a damn thing.”</p><p>Sam’s actually laughing by the time the three of them reach the front door of the Roadhouse. The Roadhouse is a typical Hunters haunt, especially after-hours when the proprietress, Ellen, retreats to her apartment across the street and Jo can sneak them in. Sam wrinkles his nose at the stench of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke that baptizes him as soon as he steps across the threshold. It’s not exactly a classy joint. There are water rings on the counter, dents in the wall leftover from brawls, a couple a’ holes that might be from bullets, and the floor’s tacky with spilled booze.</p><p>Jo’s behind the bar, wiping out a row of glasses with a wrung-out rag and sniping at Christian, “You mess this place up and Mom’ll have my head. You steal her good whiskey and she’ll have yours.”</p><p>“I ain’t afraid of your ma,” Christian answers brazenly, tipping his chair back on the two back legs in the way Sam’s seen Dean make look a lot cooler.</p><p>“You should be, brother,” Benny says with a shiver.</p><p>A lot of guys are already there. Word’s spread fast and far: there’s Victor, Walt, Roy, Adam, and even Kevin, despite the fact Sam thought he moved down to Chinatown with his mother. Sam quickly looks for Dean, but he must not be there, yet.</p><p>The girls are there, too. Bela’s perched on Benny’s table, legs crossed and skirt rucked up far enough to see her thighs. Charlie’s sitting on a bar stool, trying to get Jo’s attention. Lisa’s standing near the door, probably waiting for Dean. And Ruby’s at Christian and Victor’s table, but she looks up as soon as Sam comes in and sends him a wink.</p><p>“Knew you couldn’t stay away, Sam,” she says. Sam’s chest feels like it’s rapidly filling with molten rock and he smiles – hoping he looks roguish and cavalier, not like a dopey Looney Tune when they get hit on the head with an anvil.</p><p>“Where’s your brother?” Christian demands.</p><p>“Cool it,” Benny growls. “He said he’ll be here. He’ll be here.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Christian mutters. “The Invisible Man.”</p><p>“Alright,” Jo calls, “get your drinks. I ain’t no waitress.”</p><p>“I’ll get ‘em, Jo,” Charlie says, and she grabs a glass per hand and starts passing them out.</p><p>Sam slides into the chair next to Ruby. The table’s in the corner, and Sam hopes it’ll be enough out of the way that Dean won’t notice him as soon as he comes in.</p><p>“Deacon stopped us on the way over,” Chuck tells the gang. “Told us Campbell’s got his ear to the ground.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, let ‘im listen,” Adam pipes up. “Can’t hear nothing without his hearing aids.”</p><p>The door opens, shrieking on its hinges, and the Angels file in. Quiet spills across the bar like black ink.</p><p>“Kay, girls,” Benny says out of the corner of his mouth. “Beat it.”</p><p>“We ain’t doin’ nothing,” Bela protests.</p><p>“We don’t need no dumb broads cluttering things up,” Christian barks.</p><p>“We’re not dumb,” Charlie says quietly, but she’s the first to leave. Lisa and Bela follow her out, shooting Benny ugly looks. Jo doesn’t make a move, just picks her rag back up and keeps wiping glasses, staring daggers at the Angels.</p><p>“Catch you later, Sammy,” Ruby hisses into Sam’s ear. She squeezes his leg once, a little above his knee, and her sharp nails bite into his slacks. Sam’s belly does a barrel roll.</p><p>Luca watches Ruby slither past him to the door with a look like he wants to eat her up, piece by piece. Anger replaces lust in Sam’s gut, and it curdles there.</p><p>“Your lieutenant is not here, I see?” Michael says, cocking an eyebrow like some kind of smug bastard.</p><p>“Maybe I’m the lieutenant, huh?” Christian says.</p><p>“Let’s just cut the formalities, okay?” Victor interrupts. “We don’t like you. You don’t like us.”</p><p>Michael doesn’t respond. Instead, he nods to the Angels behind him, and they move as one, commandeering the tables and chairs on the other half of the bar. Jo doesn’t offer them any drinks. The Angels don’t ask.</p><p>“We all know why we’re here,” Benny starts. “Gonna set up a mix. Nice and tidy. Winner take all.”</p><p>“Terms?” Michael says levelly.</p><p>“You call ‘em,” Benny replies coolly. “You started this mess.”</p><p>“You called for a rumble,” Michael corrects him.</p><p>“You jumped us at the playground,” Victor says.</p><p>“You jumped me when I moved here,” Luca cuts in.</p><p>“We didn’t ask you or any a’ you wops to move here,” Christian calls. A thread of discontent rumbles through the Angels: dark looks and grumbling.</p><p>“Yeah,” Chuck says snidely. “Why don’t you head back home?”</p><p>“Why don’t you go back home, eh?” Michael echoes him snidely. “Mick. Kraut. Polak. Coolie.”</p><p>“How ‘bout you shut your mouth?” Kevin shouts, cheeks burning. His chair over ends and clatters to the floor as he stands.</p><p>“Sit down, Kevin,” Adam mumbles. “Your mom doesn’t like it when you fight.”</p><p>Michael spares Kevin a derisive glance before he turns back to Benny. “We accept.”</p><p>“Time?” Benny says. There’s a vein ticking in his right temple. Sam shrinks down in his seat. It feels like there’s an A-bomb counting down in the bar.  </p><p>“Tomorrow,” Michael says with a crooked grin that makes the hair stand up on Sam’s arms. “Eleven.”</p><p>“Place?” Benny demands.</p><p>“The park,” Michael answers.</p><p>“Too open.” Victor shakes his head. “The river.”</p><p>“And have you rats jump us from the sewers?” Luca scoffs.</p><p>“Under the highway,” Michael says.</p><p>Benny pauses for a minute, head cocked. “Right,” he drawls. “Weapons?”</p><p>The door slams open. Sam sits ramrod straight in his chair, visions of police raids or Ellen storming in with a broom assaulting his eyes. But it’s only Dean, breathing hard and face ruddy. It looks like he sprinted all the way there.</p><p>“Sorry – late,” Dean gasps, gulping air.</p><p>“No problem, chief,” Benny beams. “Take your seat.” </p><p>Sam keeps a careful eye trained on his brother as he slides across the bar and straddles a chair at Benny’s table, but Dean doesn’t glance into the corner where Sam’s sitting. He’s got eyes only for Michael.</p><p>Michael fixes Dean with an ugly glare for a minute before he turns his gaze back on Benny. “Weapons?” he barks.</p><p>“Your choice,” Christian says in mock-graciousness, casting Dean an ugly look of his own before he spreads his hands at Michael in a miniature impersonation of one of Michael’s bows.</p><p>“Blades,” Michael says at once, and Luca cackles by his side.</p><p>“Not guns?” Benny challenges, raising an eyebrow. Michael’s smile falters by a millimeter.</p><p>“Why not bricks?” Dean says, voice smooth and cold. “Or sticks and bottles? You too chicken to settle this the old fashion way? Afraid to get in close? Too chicken for plain skin?”</p><p>“Who you callin’ chicken?” Christian’s on his feet, spitting mad and spiking Dean with his eyes.</p><p>“A dog knows his own,” Luca sneers.</p><p>Dean doesn’t look away from Michael’s face. Dean’s wearing an expression that Sam’s never seen before: something closed off and calculating. Jaw squared and eyes hard. It makes something inside Sam’s stomach curl up small and shiver. It makes him feel like he doesn’t know his brother.</p><p>“A fair fight,” Dean says quietly. It’s almost like dancing: all careful steps and measured movements. “Best man from each gang slugs it out. Or ain’t you got the guts to risk it? Afraid you won’t measure up?”</p><p>“Who’s afraid?” Michael says. Like a rubber band snapping, he’s on his feet. Breathing hard. Eyes only for Dean.</p><p>There’s something old here, Sam knows. Something four months old. Something Dean’s never been fully truthful about. Something that was born in an alley when Michael and Dean went in and Dean got dragged out by Campbell.</p><p>“Right then,” Dean continues. “Fair fight. Okay, Benny?”</p><p>Benny takes a minute to stare at Dean. He’s got a strange expression on, too. Almost troubled. Almost like he doesn’t recognize Dean, either.</p><p>“Okay, chief,” Benny says finally.</p><p>There are noises of protest from the Hunters and Angels, alike, angry at being cheated out of a free-for-all, but Dean raises a hand and shouts above the noise: “Bosses say yes or no!”</p><p>“Fair fight,” says Benny, getting up from his chair, crossing the distance to Michael and extending his hand.</p><p>Michael looks at Benny’s hand like it’s some kind of disgusting, half-putrid animal. “Fair fight,” he agrees. They shake on it.</p><p>“You will not last two minutes,” Michael says, shaking a finger at Dean’s nose. “When I am finished with you, you will be only a shell. Slobbering and lolling in your own filth –”</p><p>Sam starts to get up. Victor’s got a hand around his wrist in a blink, and he shakes his head in warning.</p><p>Amazingly, Dean’s still smiling. “Boss picks best man, Nova.”</p><p>“You –” Michael blanches. He gapes for a minute like a fish out of water. “You bastard.”</p><p>“You shook on it,” Dean points out gleefully.</p><p>“Lousy cheats,” Luca spits, shoving up from the table. “And you call us vermin –”</p><p>Victor’s got one eye on the window. He cracks his knuckles on the table one, two and the two gangs move in tandem: one minute they’re yelling in each other’s faces, shoving each other over the counter, next minute they’re slapping each other on the shoulder, chatting with nice smiles.</p><p>The door opens, Lieutenant Campbell walks in. He stares from one corner of the bar to the next.</p><p>Jo tosses Dean the satchel of darts Ellen keeps under the counter, and he gently extracts a dart, cordially leads Michael over to the board and begins explaining the rules.  </p><p>“Can I get you a drink, Lieutenant?” Jo inquires politely.</p><p>“Your Momma know you keep company with this filth?” Campbell asks.</p><p>“I’m the bartender,” Jo says with a shrug. “I tend the bar.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t let my daughter within ten feet of these half-breeds,” Campbell mutters under his breath.</p><p>He looks back into the corner where Sam’s sitting, and Sam tries to make himself look small, hoping Campbell doesn’t call him out like he did this afternoon.</p><p>“Alright,” Campbell says after a pause in which he keeps scanning the room, evidently looking for anything amiss and not finding it. “Beat it, ginzos.” And when Luca opens his mouth, Campbell jabs a finger in his direction. “I don’t wanna hear it, get me? I got a badge, and I tell you to beat it, you beat it.”</p><p>Michael tosses his dart underhand toward Dean, and Dean catches it neatly. He turns swiftly and jerks his head toward the door. The Angels noiselessly follow him out, and the door slams firmly behind them.</p><p>“Got anything worth drinking?” Campbell turns to Jo, hooks a barstool with his ankle and pulls himself up. He takes off his fedora and places it on the counter by his elbow. The flickering lights in the ceiling glare off his bald head.</p><p>“Mom used the last of the arsenic on the rats,” Jo explains.</p><p>Campbell’s lip curls. “You think you’re cute, girlie?”</p><p>“I think she’s cute.” Dean sidles up to her behind the bar and slips an arm around her waist. “Right, Jo?”</p><p>Jo purses her lips, seems to be calculating her odds between Dean and Campbell and decides she’s better with Dean. “Right, Deano,” she growls through her teeth.</p><p>“This your girl, Winchester?” Campbell asks.</p><p>“Jo’s like a sister to me,” Dean replies. “So, if you want her hand, you gotta ask my blessing.”</p><p>“All a’ you are cute, ain’t you?” Campbell says.</p><p>“I’m adorable,” Dean corrects him.</p><p>Campbell ignores him. He swivels on the stool to address the entire room. “Alright, where’s the rumble? Come on, kiddos. You and the greasers only mix for one reason. So where is it? The playground? Turner’s yard?”</p><p>“We was just having some drinks,” Chuck says.</p><p>“Discussing the distribution of wealth,” Ash adds.</p><p>“We’re victims of a social disease,” Chuck says.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Campbell says, sounding resigned. And he pushes back off the stool. “You’re diseased, alright. Just know this is your last chance – you don’t spill now, then you won’t be spared when we drag you all in. Winchester’ll tell you how we treat you in the slammer. Won’t you, boy?”</p><p>Dean goes white, then red. Sam sees him swallow.</p><p>Campbell sighs heavily and snatches his hat off the bar. He leaves the bar in silence, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, it’s like the place deflates.</p><p>“Fucking bastard,” Benny says, and makes to clap Dean on the back. But Dean catches Benny’s hand in the air, gives his fist a gentle pat, and the two of them exchange a soft glance that always makes jealousy rear its ugly head in Sam’s chest, cause he’s Dean’s <em>brother</em>, and the only one Dean should be sharing silent communication with is <em>Sam</em>.</p><p>The rest of the guys are making to start clearing out, gathering jackets and draining the last dregs of beer in their glasses.</p><p>Dean peels away from Benny and starts for the door.</p><p>“Sammy,” Dean calls as he’s reaching for the handle, and Sam startles. “Let’s go home.”</p><p>“I, ah,” Sam stammers, and he feels his face flush. “Didn’t know you saw me, Dean.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. “I saw you from the window, genius.” He swats the back of Sam’s head and Sam lets him; he probably deserves it. “How you get all those ace report cards, I’ll never know.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Act One: Scene Seven, One Hand, One Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Dean’s green eyes that Castiel keeps seeing. Every waking and sleeping moment, his green eyes are there. Haunting him. Beckoning to him. Watching him levelly across dark alleyways and fire escapes. Asking for things Castiel shouldn’t want to give him. </p><p>Castiel does not know what to do with this feeling that’s been awakened inside his chest. Something that has been humming, virtually undetected, merely the size of a mustard seed for his entire adolescence. Something he has tried so hard to stamp out, to pulverize into dust so it never bothers him again.</p><p>But now the mustard seed has taken root and sprouted. It’s spread its giant branches through every twisting avenue of vein and capillary. It pumps full of blood every time his heart beats. Swells with every lungful of breath.</p><p>He cannot get rid of it. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot.</p><p>And Anna has noticed there’s something wrong with him. All today while she worked at the counter of their Uncle Donatello’s grocery store. She asked him first if he was ill. She told him he looked pallid and shocked, and worried that it was the heat or something he had eaten. Thirteen-year-old Alfie piped up from where he’d been sweeping debris into a dustpan that he was clearly going insane, that Castiel was the craziest boy on the block.</p><p>And Castiel silently agreed with his little brother. He was crazy. He would be made an outcast. A disgrace. A horrible cautionary tale that mothers would point to on the sidewalk and tell their boys, <em>See? There goes Castiel, a sinner</em>.</p><p>And Castiel should be filled with remorse at the thought, but the true guilt lay in the fact that he does not. He could not. He tried to feel guilty. He tried his hardest not to feel the way he felt about Dean, but he could not stop it.</p><p>He did not want to stop it.</p><p>Because the mustard seed that had become a tree flooded him with a marvelous, bright, and intoxicating buzz. He had caught himself smiling at nothing when he saw his reflection in the store windows. He had glanced at a bee bumbling through the daisies on the front stoop and stared at it, transfixed, for minutes, marveling at its simple, carefree beauty. He had cracked jokes and turned on his charm for the old ladies who waddled into the shop, whicker shopping baskets on their arms.</p><p>He had felt good. Alarmingly good. And he did not know how to stop it.</p><p>Castiel is alone in the church. He knows there is a priest in his office, separated from the sanctuary by a heavy wooden door, but he would stay there unless someone rings for him for confession. But Cas can’t stomach the thought of confessing.</p><p>He had agreed to meet Dean at dusk. It’s nearly that now, and sunlight filters through the gigantic stained-glass window at the back of the church as it sinks toward the horizon. The light splits into dozens of different colors: blue, green, red, orange, pink, and spills across the cobblestone floor.</p><p>Empty wooden pews stretch out from either side of him, and Castiel bows his head. He rests his brow on his fingers, folded atop the back of the pew in front of him. He rests on the kneelers. And his lips move noiselessly over the familiar prayer.</p><p>“<em>Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore e con te</em>.”</p><p>Castiel wonders if God could really hear him. If God even cares about tiny, insignificant Castiel who is afraid he is falling in love with a boy. Castiel wonders what it is about the ceremony of things, what about the kneeling, the sign of the cross, the rehearsed and repeated words, make it more sacred? Is it really necessary? Can God not hear Castiel unless his voice is magnified by the four walls of a church?</p><p>“<em>Tu sei benedetta fra le donne. e benedetto e il frutto del tuo seno, Gesu.</em>”</p><p>Unbidden, Castiel thinks of Dean. Dean will be coming to meet him soon. They had not decided on a place to meet, and Dean will undoubtedly go back to the fire escape. What will he do when he sees Castiel is not there? Will he be disappointed? Will he worry if Castiel was alright?</p><p>Will he – and the thought shrivels something deep and primal in his body – will he even show up at all? Or has Castiel perhaps misinterpreted Dean’s enthusiasm?</p><p>“<em>Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori,</em>” Castiel whispers into his folded hands, feeling his jaw move against his knuckles.</p><p>And he thinks about the rumble that will take place that night. Michael and Luca had been abuzz about it when they came in late last night. Castiel knows Dean must be going, too. Perhaps Dean is too busy preparing for the fight, and he’s forgotten he agreed to meet Castiel.</p><p>“<em>Adesso e nell’ora della nostra morte. Amen,</em>” Castiel finishes and lifts his head. He crosses himself. And he should stand up. He should go. He should head back to his fire escape and see if Dean has, indeed, remembered to come.</p><p>But perhaps it will be better all-around if Castiel stayed here. Forgiveness for sins, after all, is not a free pass to continue sinning. And here Castiel is, imploring Mother Mary to pray for the sinners, while at the same time planning to meet clandestinely with Dean.  </p><p>Castiel is a hypocrite. And the warring desires inside his heart – to cast this thought from his mind or to embrace it fully – makes it so he can hardly breathe.</p><p>“You stood me up,” says a quiet voice beside him.</p><p>Castiel rockets up from the kneelers. He would have crashed the top of his head into Dean’s chin if the other boy didn’t have the presence of mind to step out of the way.</p><p>Dean’s eyes crease into a smile. “We just keep surprising each other, don’t we?”</p><p>“Dean!” Castiel yelps. His voice echoes against the cavernous stone arches. He lowers his voice to a hiss: “What are you – how did you find me?”</p><p>Dean keeps smiling. “I know how to handle kids, Cas. Bribed your little bro with a buck fifty if he told me where you’d went.”</p><p>“Alfie knows –” Castiel begins, panic flaring sharp in his chest.</p><p>“Hey, hey, buddy.” Dean’s eyebrows fall in concern, and he grips Castiel’s forearm in reassurance. “Relax. I didn’t tell him nothing.” And then Dean’s face goes mysteriously flush, and Castiel’s face follows as they both realize they have just admitted to having something between them that needs to be hidden.</p><p>Dean’s hand falls away from Castiel’s arm. He looks at the floor. Shuffles his feet. Clears his throat. “So, this is, ah,” he picks up his head again and peers around the church, taking in the stained glass, the monstrous organ that crawls up the front wall, the steps leading to the low dais and the alter, and the crucifix hanging from the wall.  “Nice place,” Dean finishes.</p><p>“I find it peaceful,” Castiel explains. “Sometimes I enjoy the isolation. The silence.”</p><p>“Don’t get much of that out on the streets, huh?” Dean inquires.</p><p>“No,” Castiel says seriously.</p><p>“I, ah,” Dean picks up his arm and rubs at the back of his neck. “I never spent much time in churches. Stopped bringing Sammy a while ago.”</p><p>Castiel wonders if Dean is trying to tell him that he’s uncomfortable in this place, that perhaps he does not enjoy being surrounded by so many reminders of a faith he does not have.</p><p>“If you would like to leave –” Castiel offers.</p><p>“No,” Dean says quickly. “Naw. It’s good. Peaceful, like you said. There aren’t any priests around or nothing, are there? Only I don’t always get along with men o’ the cloth. I think they can smell the sin on me.” Dean obviously means it as a joke, and Castiel nods to let him know he understands this.</p><p>“There is likely a priest in the office,” Castiel replies. “But he will not bother us if we are quiet.”</p><p>“That a challenge, Cas?” Dean says with an impish look that makes Castiel’s cheeks burn again.</p><p>“We should sit down,” Castiel tells him. He scoots down the pew, so Dean will have enough room to join him. Dean sits. He folds his hands atop his lap and continues to look uneasy.</p><p>“So, ah, what do you do in joints like this?” he asks.</p><p>Castiel smiles gently at Dean. “If it is Sunday, you come to hear the choir and a sermon. But if you come when no one else is here, mostly you come to pray.”</p><p>“That, ah –” Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs. “That what you came for?”</p><p>Castiel hesitates, and Dean perhaps worries that he’s said something wrong, for he hurries, “I mean, you don’t gotta tell me, Cas –”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel cuts him off. “I came to pray.”</p><p>“So, I, ah, guess you stood me up for the better guy then, huh?” Dean inquires sheepishly. It is getting more difficult to discern when Dean is and is not joking.</p><p>“I was…feeling uncertain,” Castiel answers him.</p><p>“’Bout what? ‘Bout us?” Dean asks.</p><p>Castiel runs his tongue over his teeth. He stares ahead at the altar. He looks at Christ's pierced feet, dangling at the base of the cross.</p><p>“About the fight tonight,” Castiel says, and he tries to convince himself that it isn’t really a lie; he is worried about the rumble. He is also worried about other things. But it wouldn’t be fair to confess that to Dean.</p><p>“I got ‘em to agree to a fair fight, Cas,” Dean says in a rush, sounding faintly proud of himself. “Should ‘a seen me. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“I can’t help it,” Castiel replies. And his mind wanders, tripping over the way Dean says his name <em>Cas.</em> Castiel likes it. It sounds familiar and comfortable in Dean’s mouth. He struggles to keep talking against the grain of his thoughts. “I’m worried for Michael and Luca. I’m worried for you.”</p><p>“Shucks, Cas.” Dean swats Cas’s arm and makes a show of being embarrassed, but Cas catches a glimpse of the side of his face and he can see he’s secretly pleased.</p><p>“I do not understand why you have to fight at all,” Cas says.</p><p>Dean shrugs. “It’s just what we do, Cas. Things just build – little digs, a shove here, a threat there – and <em>bang</em>. Gotta fight.”</p><p>“That’s how you feel?” Cas turns to study Dean’s face, and Dean looks immediately uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Dean pulls his right ankle atop his left knee and starts picking at the top of his sock visible above his shoe.</p><p>“Sometimes,” Dean says at last. “Not so much anymore, I guess.”</p><p>“What changed?” Cas asks, and he remembers how Dean clarified before that Cas did not have to talk about praying if he did not want to. “If you would like to tell me, I mean.”</p><p>Dean keeps plucking at his sock. He’s worked apart a thread, and he pulls it until the knitting comes unraveled, forms a hole large enough to stick his little finger through.</p><p>“I dunno,” Dean replies. “Guess it had something to do with losing Dad. And then getting tossed in jail. Made me realize how much Sammy needed me. Cause I wasn’t there for him, you know?”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas says thoughtfully. “I think I can understand that. You realized there are better ways to fight for those you love.”</p><p>“Sure,” Dean says faintly. He looks up from his sock. Cas suddenly wishes he hadn’t because now all Cas can do is look at his face: his finely chiseled cheekbones and green-grass eyes. Eyes the color of prairie meadows. The kind of empty fields Cas had thought America was blanketed in. Instead he got black tar and filth.</p><p>“What happened?” Cas asks. “That sent you to jail,” he clarifies.</p><p>Dean shrugs. His shoulders stay up by his ears. “It, ah, just a fluke, man. Michael jumped me, and –” he stops to shoot Cas an apologetic glance. “Campbell came around and roughed me up a little. No big deal.”</p><p>“It sounds like a big deal,” Cas protests, frowning.</p><p>Dean looks away. He scratches his nose and says, “So, what about you? How come you're not with the other feathers?”</p><p>Cas understands that Dean has intentionally changed the subject, and he knows it would be best if he did not point this out. Cas thinks for a minute, straightening out all the pieces inside his head, not entirely sure how to start, but Dean waits for him patiently.</p><p>“I remember the war,” Cas says finally. His voice is hushed in the church, and that is something he has always liked about speaking in a church: if you speak softly enough the largeness of the room vacuums up the noise, makes it so your words are only for yourself and God. Or, in this case, only for Cas and Dean.</p><p>“Anna was barely able to walk. Alfie was not born until after. I was young, but not too young to forget the bombing and the gunfire in the streets. Papa left to fight. We were so sure he was going to die. And I remembered how sick the fear made me. It was like a disease, eating me up from the inside out. Like black oil in my veins. And I decided I hated that fear, and I hated the fighting that made me afraid. I am very tired of fighting, Dean, and tired of watching people I love get hurt.”</p><p>Hemmingway wrote it so much better. He made it sound so much simpler than Cas:  </p><p><em>There is nothing worse than war</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Defeat is worse.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do not believe it. What is defeat? You go home.</em>
</p><p>“My Dad fought, too,” Dean says in a hushed voice. He is back to picking at his sock. “Left Sammy and me with Bobby – that’s the old guy I fix cars for – and got shipped out to take pot shots at the Japs. He never talked about it much.”</p><p>“War can change people,” Cas agrees.</p><p>“Yeah, ‘guess,” Dean shrugs. He pauses for a moment and then he looks to Cas; his face is earnest. He speaks quickly, a little frantically, “Listen, Cas, about the rumble – I know you don’t like it. Hell, I don’t like it, either. But I don’t know what else I can do about it –”</p><p>“They would not listen to you if you asked them to stop?” Cas guesses.</p><p>Dean lets out a sharp breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but it looks like it hurts him. “You kidding? Both sides’d probably keelhaul me.”</p><p>“And you will go with them?”</p><p>The expression of discomfort grows on Dean’s face. “I gotta, Cas. I gotta be there for Benny. He’s – he’s like my brother, man.”</p><p>Cas swallows. He lets Dean’s word sink deep into his skin; they make him feel a little ill, but he cannot stop them now.</p><p>“Then I will go, too,” Cas says firmly.</p><p>“What?” Dean’s voice vibrates through the air. He slides off the pew, stands in the aisle, and gapes at Cas. “No,” he says and starts shaking his head. “No way, Cas. No.”</p><p>“If you will be there for your brothers, then I must be there for mine,” Cas says.</p><p>“Fuck no,” Dean says fiercely. He turns on his heel. Stalks away two paces, runs his hands through his short hair – and Cas does not think about his own fingers in Dean’s hair; he does not – and then turns to face Cas again. “You don’t understand, Cas,” Dean says. There is a tiny waver in his voice. “It’s too dangerous. This thing’s a powder keg, okay? If the fair fight don’t go down like one side wants it, things are liable ‘a blow up.”</p><p>“Then I will be there to help minimize the damage,” Cas says.</p><p>“You’re fucking crazy,” Dean tells him angrily. He walks toward the end of the aisle. He stops in the front pew, closes his fist around the back of the seat. Cas can see his shoulders heaving as he attempts to regain control of his breathing.</p><p>Slowly, Cas rises. He approaches Dean cautiously, unsure whether he will lash out or allow Cas to reach him.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas says hesitantly. Dean flinches slightly at the sound of Cas’s voice and doesn’t turn around, but he doesn’t start yelling. “This is important to me.” <em>You are important to me</em>. “If I can stop someone I love from getting hurt –”</p><p>“It don’t work like that,” Dean says thickly. He sucks in a hard, tremulous breath. “No matter how hard you try, Cas. You can’t stop no one from getting hurt. ‘Specially if you love ‘em.”</p><p>“I can’t believe that,” Cas says. His heart thuds inside his chest. His stomach is tight with nerves. Carefully, he crawls the tips of his fingers over Dean’s shoulder until his palm is lying flat there. He can feel the heat of Dean’s skin under his leather jacket, the shifting of his muscles as he tenses under Cas’s touch. It is so hot Cas would not be surprised if he was searing a handprint into Dean’s flesh.</p><p>“I would not like to argue with you,” Cas says.</p><p>The sun is setting outside, tinting the colors in the stained glass with rosy gold. It makes Dean’s fair skin glow like embers. His hair glints with bronze. Their shadows stretch across the stone floor, spill across the dais so it looks like they’re kneeling at the altar.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He turns back around. His eyes are a little red, but he doesn’t look too upset anymore. He offers a weak smile and then drifts a little closer to the altar. He observes the crucifix, glances at the organ.</p><p>Cas thinks about Hemmingway again.</p><p>
  <em>The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course. Who said it?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don't know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He was probably a coward. He knew a great deal about cowards but nothing about the brave. The brave dies perhaps two thousand deaths if he’s intelligent. He simply doesn't mention them.</em>
</p><p>“So, you believe in all this shit then?” Dean says, waving a hand vaguely to encompass the cross, the altar, the emptiness of the church around them.</p><p>“I think,” Cas says slowly, furrowing his brow, “I do not know how not to believe.” He chews on his lip. He shuffles a little closer to Dean, not liking the distance between them. “And you do not?” he presumes.</p><p>Dean kicks his toe softly against the first step of the dais. “I used to.”</p><p>“What happened?” Cas asks.</p><p>“Dunno,” Dean replies. “I prayed every night when I was a kid. Then Mom died, I guess. Whole apartment went up in flames. Didn’t seem like any point in believing in a God that was gonna let shit like that happen. But I think Sammy still believes. Still catch him praying before bed sometimes. Even if he tries to hide it.”</p><p>“What was your mother like?” Cas asks. He sidles up beside Dean, so they are standing abreast in front of the altar, staring at Christ with his crown of thorns and pierced side.</p><p>“God, she was beautiful,” Dean breathes. There is wonder in his voice. Cas sneaks a look at his face and sees that it is transformed: he looks like a little boy, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed with that perfect kind of awe only found in memory. “Golden hair and clear blue eyes. And this smile that made you really believe that you were safe. That nothing bad could happen in the world as long as she kept smiling.”</p><p>“I would have liked to meet her,” Cas tells Dean.</p><p>Dean smiles sadly in return. “I think she would ‘a liked you. She liked nearly everyone so long they weren’t a jerk. Dad though – well, he didn’t like anyone, really, so you’re off the hook where he’s concerned, I guess.”</p><p>It startles a laugh out of Cas’s throat. He enjoys the idea of Dean’s mother liking him. He enjoys this imaginary reality: an uncomplicated place where love was love and there was no more fear.</p><p>“My Mama and Papa were both very strict, but I think you would have charmed your way into Mama’s heart. And Papa, I think, would have found you amusing.”</p><p>“Gee whiz, Cas,” Dean says, hanging his head in false modesty. “Shouldn’t say things like that. Ain’t good for my ego.” </p><p>Cas laughs, clear and unexpected. He grabs hold of Dean’s hand without thinking. “It is true,” he says, and runs his thumb over the back of Dean’s knuckles on instinct. “You are quite charming.”</p><p>Dean is staring at their hands, clutched in the space between them, and Cas suddenly becomes aware of how thick and strong Dean’s fingers are. He feels the calluses on his palms, worn there through years of hard work.</p><p>Dean swallows; he looks at Cas’s face. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”</p><p>“Your hand is very warm,” Cas says. It is hard to speak. His saliva sticks in his throat.</p><p>“Yours are cold,” Dean complains. “Come ‘ere.” He snatches hold of Cas’s other hand. Now they are gripping both hands between their chests, staring into each other’s eyes.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas starts. He stops.</p><p>Dean says quickly, eyebrows pinched, “Cas, you gotta give me some sign, okay. You gotta – you gotta let me know –”</p><p>“I wish we could have met long ago –” Cas says, speaking over Dean, hardly aware of what Dean is saying. His heart is beating so hard it hurts. He cannot imagine Dean can’t hear it. There is sweat running down the back of his neck. And he feels a little like he’s flying. Like he’s swooped up into the air and left his stomach behind.</p><p>“We are in the clouds,” Cas whispers, knowing he has done again what Anna always reprimands him for: starting in the middle of a dialogue that has, until this point, only been one-sided.</p><p>“Just blue, man,” Dean replies, because they are on the same page. It feels in this moment that their hearts beat as one. </p><p>Dean leans forward, tilts his head down just an inch so they can fit their faces together. Bathed in the rose gold light of sunset and the kaleidoscope colors of the painted glass, Dean is the most beautiful thing Cas has ever seen.</p><p>“It’s a sin,” Cas breathes into Dean’s lips, protesting by rote, but inside his head he is pleading <em>please. Please, Dean.</em></p><p>“It ain’t a sin,” Dean replies, extracting one hand so he can touch his fingertips to Cas’s jaw. Feather-light and scalding.</p><p>“It’s a crime.” Cas swallows.</p><p>“No one will see,” Dean reassures him. And their lips meet. It is soft and damp. Dean’s mouth is warm and slightly open, so Cas can feel the ridge of his bottom teeth digging faintly into Cas’s upper lip. Castiel has never been kissed before; it makes tingles spread through his entire body, starting at his lips and running along the branches of the mustard tree.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Santa Maria, Madre di Dio,</em> Cas recites inside his head, as he loses himself to the feel of Dean’s mouth over his. He frees one of his own hands and places his palm against Dean’s waist, like he did while they were dancing in the alleyway.</p><p><em>Prega per noi peccatori</em>. Dean pulls away his second hand and brings it up to cup the back of Cas’s head, fix him there so that he will not be able to pull away. Cas reaches his arm around Dean’s back, pulls him close. Their chests meet. A thrill runs through Cas’s heart: he does not want to pull away. Not ever.  </p><p>
  <em>Adesso e nell’ora della nostra morte.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Amen</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Act One: Scene Eight, The Rumble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Specific chapter CWs: one use of the f-slur and homophobic-motivated violence, including an attempted assault with a non-con kiss, police brutality, and Dean acts briefly aggressive toward Cas because he doesn't know how to express his emotions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You gotta take my lead out here, okay?” Dean tells Cas as they race side by side through the alleys and one-way streets, heading toward the parkway that runs along the length of the Hudson River.</p>
<p>“Of course, Dean,” Cas says.</p>
<p>And panic flares so alarmingly fierce inside Dean’s chest it turns immediately to anger. He stops mid-stride and spins toward Cas. He shoves Cas against the brick side of a laundromat, splays one hand against Cas’s chest and sticks his forearm under Cas’s chin. Cas’s eyes widen with confusion and the barest glimpse of fear.</p>
<p>“I’m fucking serious,” Dean spits. “I mean it, Cas. First sign of trouble and you’re out. Fucking run and don’t look back. I’m not gonna watch you get hurt.”</p>
<p>“I understand, Dean,” Cas says levelly. It does nothing to quell the wild rabbiting of Dean’s heart. The sick fear building in his stomach. His pulse thrums in his head, and he can hardly see.</p>
<p>“You fucking better,” Dean says tightly. He springs forward to press a sloppy, fierce kiss to Cas’s mouth.</p>
<p>Dean remembers four months ago. He remembers walking back home after sharing a couple cigarettes from Benny. Michael jumping him in an alley just for the hell of it. Because Dean was a Hunter and Michael was an Angel, and Michael’d probably had a shit day. Michael slamming him face-first into a wall. Scuffling in the dark. Hands on his face and then Michael’s lips against Dean’s.</p>
<p><em>You’re too pretty for your own good, Hunter</em>, Michael rasped into Dean’s open mouth.</p>
<p>Then whistles. A flashlight. Dean was just a second too slow, so he saw the soles of Michael’s shoes disappear down the alley as Campbell’s baton smashed into the base of his skull. Dean crashed onto all fours. The steel-toe of Campbell’s boot rammed into Dean’s ribs, and he heard something snap upon impact. He still doesn’t know whether or not Campbell saw the kiss – if that was why he reacted so violently.</p>
<p>Dean releases Cas. Cas sways a little as he drops back from the wall. “Now get lost,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “We can’t show up together.”</p>
<p>“Dean –” Cas starts to say, but Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to stick around to hear Cas tell him good-bye.</p>
<p>“Fuck out a’ here!” Dean yells, and he kicks himself into a sprint. He listens to see if Cas is running to catch up with him, but there aren’t any following footsteps.</p>
<p>He knows these streets well enough he could navigate them in a blindfold. And he might as well be wearing a blindfold, because everywhere he turns, he sees Cas. Cas dancing with him in an alley. Cas sitting next to him in church. Cas kissing him at the altar. Cas’s hand between his shoulder blades. Cas’s hair under Dean’s fingers.</p>
<p>After the Roadhouse last night, Sammy asked Dean how come he kept grinning like some kind of maniac. Sammy asked if it was because Dean’d made up with Lisa again, or something.</p>
<p>And Dean said <em>or something</em> because, truth is, Lisa kinda lost her appeal after that pregnancy scare a half a year ago, and, anyway, Lisa’d never made Dean smile the way Cas made Dean smile.</p>
<p>It’s something, that’s for sure. And it scares Dean to his core. But he feels intoxicated by it. High as a kite and itching for another fix. He wants this rumble over and done with, so he and Cas can get back to – whatever it is they figure out comes next.</p>
<p>Dean catches sight of another shadowy figure ahead. He pauses to whack his knuckles twice against the side of a dumpster.</p>
<p>The figure turns and nods, “Dean.” It’s Victor, and Dean darts out to join him.</p>
<p>“Vic,” Dean says. Together, they break into a jog. It feels good to run. Dean can feel adrenaline sizzling in his veins.</p>
<p>“You packing, brother?” Victor says, flashing Dean a swift smile.</p>
<p>“No,” Dean says at once. It’s partially a lie; he’s always carrying a switchblade in his sock, but he’s so used to it being there, that he hardly counts it. “It’s a fair fight. We don’t need it.”</p>
<p>Victor chuckles meanly, and Dean’s skin prickles into gooseflesh. “Fair fight ‘til it ain’t no more,” Victor says. “Them macaronies break into a rumble, and we’ll be ready for ‘em.”</p>
<p>It isn’t often that Dean hears Victor sound so ruthless, and unease stirs deep inside his stomach. It doesn’t bode well for the fight if Victor’s attitude is anything like the other boys.</p>
<p>More of the gang gathers as they approach the highway. Ash and Chuck run up together. Christian joins them soon after. Benny is already waiting with some of the others: Adam, Walt, and Roy. And all of them are itching for a fight. Dean can see it in the way they stand, the tenseness of their jaws, the way Ash keeps opening and closing his fist, the way Christian shoves Roy when he accidentally bumps him.</p>
<p>It ain’t a pretty picture, and Dean’s worry grows. He wonders if Cas has made it to the Angels, yet. If he’s facing a similar sight.</p>
<p>Benny looks nervous. He shoots Dean a tense smile when he sees him. “Hiya, chief.”</p>
<p>“Benny,” Dean nods a greeting.</p>
<p>Sammy and Jo jog up at nearly the same minute, but from different directions. There’s an explosion of protests directed at Jo from some of the guys, but Dean’s voice rises over theirs: “Get the hell out of here, Sammy.”</p>
<p>It’s bad enough Cas will be there. Dean’s not about to worry about his kid brother, too.</p>
<p>“I’m a Hunter, Dean,” Sam starts, jutting out his jaw in the way that always achingly reminds Dean of Dad.</p>
<p>“The fuck you are; you’re a sixteen-year-old kid,” Dean says. He takes a step forward. So help him God, he will bodily drag Sammy away and chain him up if he has to.</p>
<p>“You ain’t the boss,” Christian snaps because he’s a loudmouth bastard who has to stick his nose into things that aren’t his business. “You don’t decide who is and isn’t a Hunter.”</p>
<p>Dean wheels on Christian, “You want a broken skull?” he says, raising his fist.</p>
<p>Hands immediately clutch the back of his shirt: Chuck and Ash holding him back. Walt and Roy leap forward to do the same to Christian.</p>
<p>“Fucking cool it, you two,” Benny snarls and bares his teeth. “Dean, you don’t like your kid brother here, you deal with it. But deal with it quiet.” Dean nearly flinches at Benny’s tone; he’s never heard him so on edge before. Benny adds, almost like an apology, “Kay, Chief?”</p>
<p>“Kay, Benny,” Dean echoes gruffly. Chuck and Ash let him go. Dean shoots Sammy a hard look, and Sammy just stares levelly back at him, as if daring Dean to say something else. Kid’s got a stubborn streak in him a mile wide, Dean’ll give him that. And Dean supposes he’s partly to blame for it; he took so much trouble to teach Sammy to stand his ground when he was a little kid when the worst he had to worry about was schoolyard bullies.</p>
<p>“You fucking try anything, and I’ll deck you,” Dean hisses into Sammy’s ear when he gets close enough.</p>
<p>“Stop treating me like a kid, Dean,” Sammy snaps and leaves to walk between Chuck and Ash. A new emotion nestles beside the worry inside Dean’s ribs: something akin to jealousy, but it has too much hurt in it. Dean falls back to the tail of the group, where Jo is skulking around trying to be unobtrusive.</p>
<p>To get under the highway, they need to cross through a construction site that’s been closed off with chain link fences and traffic cones. Construction equipment: a cement mixer, dump truck, and backhoe, loom in the darkness like the carcasses of hulking, ancient beasts.</p>
<p>Dean hears the slap of skin on metal and the rattle of the fence as the Hunters haul themselves up and over. Dean sticks his toes through the fencing and clambers up easier than a ladder. He could do this practically before he learned how to tie his shoes. He swings his legs over the top of the fence and lets himself drop the eight feet to the pavement below, landing neatly in a crouch.</p>
<p>As one, the Hunters prowl under the parkway. Large, rectangular pillars holding up the road above emerge from the darkness. The sound of traffic overhead thunders, rumbles, and echoes. This close to the river, the smell of oil slicks and garbage is strong. There’s a dingy city of makeshift tents hidden in a corner, but the Hunters pay the homeless no mind, and they’re ignored, in turn.</p>
<p>“Flyboys up ahead,” Ash says, loud enough to be heard over the whirring of the traffic.</p>
<p>Dean’s stomach wrenches. For a second, he’s afraid he’s going to puke. “Benny,” Dean dodges through the ranks, slipping between shoulders.</p>
<p>Benny distractedly turns his head to meet him.</p>
<p>“Listen, Benny,” Dean snatches Benny’s wrist. He remembers what Cas asked him, how desperate he looked when he pleaded with Dean to put a stop to it. “You don’t hav’ta fight. It ain’t worth it. You don’t gotta –”</p>
<p>A hand like a vice curls around his shoulder, and Christian’s vicious sneer fills his ear, “What did I tell you, Benny. Yellow as they come.”</p>
<p>Dean snaps. He yanks away from Christian’s hold and whirls into him, palms out, so he’s got a fistful of Christian’s shirt as soon as he shoves into his chest.</p>
<p>“You touch me again, and I’ll kill you,” Dean says, voice cracking like a whip. He is angry. So angry his vision narrows until all he can see is Christian’s ugly, narrow face. He’s angry that Sammy walked away from him. Angry that Cas insisted on coming into danger. Angry that Benny continues to make foolish decisions. And angry at Christian for being a Goddamn bastard.</p>
<p>Christian’s mouth drops, but he doesn’t have time to respond. The Angels are close enough now to see the dark shadows of their bodies, close enough that their energy becomes tangible, humming through the air like an electrical current.</p>
<p>Benny strips out of his jacket and hands it to Victor. He shrugs his shoulders and swings his arms in front of his chest. His muscles ripple under his white shirt. Benny’s the biggest of the Hunters, tall and stacked. He looks like a bull elephant getting ready to charge.</p>
<p>Among the Angels, Michael is also getting ready. He spits into his palms, rubs them together, and then runs his fingers through his hair, flattening it to his skull. Luca’s evil grin gleams in the half darkness. Zachariah cracks his knuckles and leers. Raphael laughs low and dangerous. In the back, looking small and anxious, but steadfast, Castiel hovers, eyes on his oldest brother’s back.</p>
<p>“Right,” Victor says. He steps forward. “Center and shake hands.”</p>
<p>“We do not play by your Queensberry rules,” Michael scoffs. “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Victor says, hands raised to shoulder height. He steps back into the Hunters. “Fast and to the point, Benny. Nothing fancy,” he says into Benny’s ear as he passes.  </p>
<p>Benny nods curtly, and Christian adds nastily, “Not too fast, daddy-o.”</p>
<p>Benny walks to the center. Michael steps forward to meet him. The two gangs close in around them, forming a nearly perfect ring. It goes silent save for the continued rushing of the cars above them. The traffic rattles a constant stream of dust from under the highway, so that it looks a little like it’s snowing.</p>
<p>Dean sucks in a breath and holds it until his lungs ache. Benny and Michael circle each other like two caged tigers, each fixated purely on their opponents. At first, Dean thinks it’s hatred on their faces, but then a shaft of murky light falls across Benny’s face, and Dean recognizes the glint in his eye as fear. Michael circles around and Dean remembers how he looked in that alley four months ago, torn in half by disgust and desire, and there’s a similar look on his face now, only it's darker and deeper. It’s something Dean’s imagined on his own face when he’s fought to defend Sam or stepped up to take a hit for Benny or Jo.</p>
<p>He remembers what Cas told him on the fire escape: <em>America asked him to become hard, so he became hard.</em></p>
<p>“Are you dancing or are you fighting!” Luca shouts. His voice acts like a trigger.</p>
<p>Benny lunges forward. Michael dodges. Benny is heavy and strong. Dean knows from experience that he packs a helluva punch, but Michael is lean and fast. Dean wouldn’t have said it out loud, but he’s not sure who’s got the advantage in this fight.</p>
<p>Michael rises with a quick jab to Benny’s ribs. The blow hits, but Benny doesn’t flinch. He swings again for Michael’s head. Michael blocks him and the recoil sends him stumbling. Benny takes advantage of Michael’s imbalance to throw another punch. This time it glances across Michael’s chin.</p>
<p>Michael totters into Chuck, who shoves him back into the ring.</p>
<p>“Michael!” It’s Cas, sounding pained and scared, and Dean’s stomach drops. He wonders if this is the first fight Cas has ever seen. He wonders what he’d feel like: seeing Sammy getting beat to a pulp while the rest of them just hung back and watched.</p>
<p>“Benny, stop!” Dean shouts. He trips into the ring; Victor reaches for his arm, but Dean spins away from him.</p>
<p>Benny hesitates long enough for Michael to spring back into action. He takes advantage of Benny’s distraction to tangle a foot between Benny’s legs. Benny upends and lands hard on his ass. Dean is between Michael and Benny in a blink of an eye, arms outstretched, heart clogging his throat.</p>
<p>“Michael, no,” Dean says stupidly. His mind is blank. He doesn’t know what to stay. He feels like he’s standing in front of a speeding train.</p>
<p>“Dean…” Cas whispers, and it’s barely audible over the traffic and the shouting from the others – Ash says, “don’t be no hero” and Luca shouts, “You say fair fight! Let them fight!” – but Dean hears it, and Cas’s voice cuts through him like a blade.</p>
<p>“Don’t do this,” Dean begs. “What are you trying to prove? It ain’t worth it, Michael.”</p>
<p>“You finally have the guts to fight your own battles?” Michael leers.</p>
<p>“Michael, please,” Dean breathes. His hands are shaking. He is a coward, Dean knows it. He’s a dirty, rotten, piece of shit coward, and all of them know it.</p>
<p>“Dean –”</p>
<p>“Little boy?” Michael taunts. He shoves Dean in the chest. Dean totters back a step.</p>
<p>“Dean, don’t just stand there.”</p>
<p>“Little girl?” Michael follows him, catches hold of Dean’s shirt and pulls him close. “<em>Piccola ragazza</em>?” Dean is close enough he can see that Michael and Castiel have the same wavy hair. Close enough that he can see Michael’s eyes are grey and lifeless compared to Castiel’s deep, ocean blue.</p>
<p>“For God’s sake, Dean, fight back!”</p>
<p>“Little coward?” spit lands on Dean’s face. Michael’s as close to Dean as he was that night when he kissed him. Michael smiles, an ugly, feral thing. “Little faggot?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off, you bastard!” Sammy roars and flings himself forward. He tackles Michael at the waist and the two of them go down in a flurry of long limbs.</p>
<p>Dean forgets about not fighting. He forgets about promising Cas. He springs forward, eyes only on his brother. He sees Michael’s fist fly, sees his knuckles land on Sammy’s mouth, and Sammy’s neck snaps backward. Dean catches him as the momentum from the hit sends him sprawling toward the pavement.</p>
<p>Dean hauls Sam out of the ring. Sam wrestles in his arms, all stringy arms and legs and surprising strength.</p>
<p>“Lemme go! Fucking let go!” Sammy grunts and twists, but Dean holds fast.</p>
<p>But then Dean looks up and sees that Michael’s back on his feet. He’s somehow got a switchblade out. And Benny’s moving forward, a second knife pressed into his own palm.</p>
<p>“No…” Dean’s mouth drops and his muscles liquify, and, left without any resistance, Sammy fights himself out of Dean’s arms and lands on his ass.</p>
<p>“Benny, no!” Dean screams and races forward again.</p>
<p>“Hold him!” Benny roars, not even looking over his shoulder, but knowing Dean’s there, knowing Dean would come to him because Dean is his brother. They’ve been running these streets since they were twelve years old. When they were just a couple street rats. They’d play hooky and bum cigarettes and try to find liquor stores that would sell them beer. Dean had dinner with Benny and his mother too many nights to count. Benny would give him and Sammy a place to stay when Dad got too bad they couldn’t sleep in the apartment. Benny and him cut their palms open on broken glass and became blood brothers while watching the quiet, twinkling cityscape from the roof of Dean’s apartment complex.</p>
<p>Benny doesn’t need to look to know Dean’s there.</p>
<p>Hands close around Dean’s arms. He tugs one away. More hands come. Chuck, Ash, Adam, Victor. Four of them to keep him from breaking into the circle and tearing Michael to shreds, and still Dean fights.</p>
<p>“Nova, you bastard!” Dean yells. “You dirty, fucking pig! You said fair fight!”</p>
<p>“Fair fight?” Luca yells in return. “It was never a fair fight. You are cheating, rotten scum!”</p>
<p>Michael jabs at Benny’s arm. Benny tugs out of the way. He aims for Michael’s chest. Michael spins and drops low, punching upward. Benny backs up; he’s too slow. Too fucking slow. And against fists it was an even playing field. But blades, and Michael’s at a clear advantage.</p>
<p>“No!” Dean spits. He pulls one arm loose. A forearm lands against his neck, choking him. Dean sputters. “Let me go – fucking –”</p>
<p>Michael chases Benny with one quick stab after another. Benny tries to parry, sticking his blade forward. But Michael catches his wrist with a sharp knock from his elbow, and Benny’s hand spasms – his knife goes flying.</p>
<p>Michael slashes his knife forward. It slices easily through Benny’s shirt. A spurt of dark red spreads across the white fabric. Benny gasps and claps a hand against the cut. He’s defenseless. His eyes are wide with terror. He missteps and trips, flails wildly for purchase on the ground –</p>
<p>The boys holding Dean are slack-jawed with horror. Dean shoves, twists, punches wildly – he’s free. He sprints into the circle. Michael lunges toward Benny’s chest, blade flashing.</p>
<p>Dean hooks his arms through Michael’s underarms and yanks him backward. The two of them overbalance. Michael’s knife goes flying. It clatters somewhere behind them. Dean lands on his back on the hard, damp pavement. Michael crashes on top of him with a shout and his bony elbow jabs Dean in the stomach.</p>
<p>Dean’s breath rushes from his mouth in a gasp. Michael’s already moving. He twists madly on top of Dean so that he and Dean are chest to chest. His knee lands in Dean’s groin.</p>
<p>“Fuck!” Dean barks and his eyes water from the sharp pain that spurts through his pelvis.</p>
<p>Michael scrabbles for the blade somewhere behind Dean’s head. Dean sees over his shoulder that Benny’s back on his feet. Christian tosses him his knife. Benny rushes forward. Luca intercepts him. He loops an arm around Benny’s chest, but he only succeeds in slowing the larger boy down.</p>
<p>Michael’s fist closes around his blade again, and he rolls off Dean, leaps back to his feet. Dean’s head buzzes with pain. He shakes it to clear his vision. He weakly pushes himself back to his feet and totters forward.</p>
<p>Benny shoves Luca off him and charges Michael. Michael ducks. Benny’s momentum sends him toward Dean. Michael spins. Michael lunges.</p>
<p>Michael’s blade buries itself to the hilt between Benny’s shoulder blades.</p>
<p>Someone screams. A sharp, startled, formless shout of horror, grief, or pain.</p>
<p>Benny crashes into Dean’s arms. Dean staggers under the unexpected weight. Limp weight. Dead weight.</p>
<p>There is movement. There is chaos all around them. Screaming, yelling, fighting. But Dean doesn’t see it. He doesn’t hear it.</p>
<p>Benny’s eyes slide across Dean’s face until they latch onto his eyes. Benny is pale. His mouth is open in a tiny, perfectly round circle of surprise. He looks confused, like he doesn’t understand why his legs stopped working. Why his arms stopped working. Why he can’t simply stand back up.</p>
<p>Benny’s knees give out. Dean lowers him to the ground. Dean wraps his arms around his chest, and he finds the hole in his back with his palms. It gushes slick, warm blood.</p>
<p>“You’re okay,” Dean whispers nonsensically into Benny’s ear. “It ain’t that bad. It ain’t even that bad.”</p>
<p>Benny’s eyes slip away from Dean’s face. They grow dark, gaping, and empty. His head lolls onto Dean’s shoulder, and the wound in his back stops rhythmically pumping blood and, instead, starts merely seeping it.</p>
<p>Benny taught him how to throw a football, Dean thinks stupidly. <em>Like this,</em> Benny said, voice high-pitched with boyhood, cheeks plump and sunburned. <em>Fingers on the laces</em>, he maneuvered Dean’s fingers around the pigskin, and Dean felt a shiver run up his arm, all the way over his shoulder and down his spine, at the feel of Benny’s fingers on his.</p>
<p>Two paces away, Michael stands, blood-soaked knife in his hand. And he looks aghast.</p>
<p>It is that, more than anything else, that makes the rage boil over inside Dean’s body. <em>What the fuck did he think sticking someone with a blade would do?</em></p>
<p>Benny’s knife is at Dean’s feet where it slid from Benny’s lifeless fingers.</p>
<p>Benny’s knife is in Dean’s hand. The handle nearly slips Dean’s grasp because of the blood.</p>
<p>Michael takes a step back. They are unnoticeable in the sea of raging, frantic bodies. Michael raises his blade limply in defense.</p>
<p>Benny’s blade is in Dean's hand, and then it is in Michael’s chest. Dean does not remember taking the two steps forward. He and Michael look as one to the blade protruding from his sternum.</p>
<p>Dean lets go of the handle. Michael sways. Michael crumples. Someone catches him before he falls. Gentle hands pull his head into a lap. Trembling fingers touch his face. Blue – beautiful blue eyes – look up from the ground and stare at Dean in stunned, painful disbelief.</p>
<p>Cas is crying. Slow, plump tears spilling from his baby blue eyes, and Dean made him cry. Dean killed his brother and made Castiel cry.</p>
<p>“No,” Cas whispers. The traffic roars on the highway above, and Dean can’t hear him. But Dean sees the shapes Cas’s mouth makes, and he knows what he’s saying. “Dean, no.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>End Act One</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Act Two: Scene One, Cool It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam’s got eyes on his brother. His eyes don’t leave Dean from the moment Dean rocked under Benny’s weight. So, Sam sees Dean lower Benny to the ground. Sam dodges bodies and flying fists as the circle loses its shape and Hunter and Angel, alike, throw themselves at each other’s throats. Fair fight long forgotten.  </p>
<p>He sees Dean stare, utterly mystified, at his palms covered in Benny’s blood. Sam spins around Chuck and an Angel, who are locked together like two rabid dogs.</p>
<p>He sees Dean look up at Michael. He sees Dean grab Benny’s discarded knife.</p>
<p>“Dean!” Sam screams. He tries to get around Raphael, who lands a punch to Sam’s stomach. Sam doubles over. His eyes are streaming, but they’re still attuned to Dean.</p>
<p>Sam sees his big brother take two steps forward. Sees Michael barely lift a hand to stop him. Sees Dean plow the knife into Michael’s chest.</p>
<p>Sam screams at the same time Luca does. Michael drops. Dean stands there. Sam and Luca sprint for Dean. Dean stares, transfixed, as a second boy slides forward and pulls Michael’s body to his chest. Cradles Michael’s head in his lap.</p>
<p>“Dean, no,” the boy says.</p>
<p>Dean’s lips form around the name, “Cas….”</p>
<p>“Dean, watch out!” Sam yells, because there are too many people in the way, and he won’t get there in time.</p>
<p>Luca plows into Dean. The two of them fly four feet before they slam into the ground. “I will kill you,” Luca says, voice chillingly matter-of-fact, and he starts tearing into Dean.</p>
<p>Raphael has Sam around the back, squeezing his ribs hard enough to stop Sam’s breathing. Sam’s vision goes foggy and dark at the edges. He throws aside everything Dean ever told him about class-act fighting, and he rams his elbow as hard as he can into Raphael’s groin.</p>
<p>Raphael releases Sam with a howl. Sam stumbles the last few paces it takes him to get to Luca, and then he launches himself at the boy.</p>
<p>“Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” Sam screams at the top of his lungs and punches, scratches, bites, every bit of Luca he can reach, because Luca is going to kill Dean. Dean is on the ground and Luca is pummeling him: kicking his head and ribs, and the pool of blood around Dean is getting bigger and bigger because Dean isn’t doing anything to defend himself, and maybe he’s already dead –</p>
<p>Shrill sirens split the air.  </p>
<p>Like it’s some kind of signal, the Hunters and Angels scatter. Luca throws off Sam. He gives Dean a final kick to his head. And then he scrabbles away like a sewer rat, disappearing within seconds inside the shadows. </p>
<p>Rapid footsteps fade. Whistles join the sirens. A flashlight shaft lands to the left of Sam and Dean. There are tiny circles of light down the tunnel-like channel formed by the pillars and the parkway above them. They gleam like the eyes of a wild animal.</p>
<p>It is abruptly, frighteningly silent.</p>
<p>“Dean,” Sam hisses. He forces himself to reach out his hand and touch his brother’s shoulder. He is terrified Dean is dead. He is terrified his fingers will find cold, stiff flesh, or perhaps sink into a rotten, putrid corpse. “Dean, please…” Sam’s throat closes in on itself. His eyes burn.</p>
<p>His fingers brush the cool, slippery surface of Dean’s blood-covered jacket – Dad’s jacket, Sam’s brain hazily provides – and Dean moans.</p>
<p>Relief fills Sam so quickly, it makes him dizzy.</p>
<p>“Dean, you gotta get up.” He places both hands against Dean’s shoulder and he shoves hard, rolling his brother onto his back. Dean’s face is covered in blood and bruises. His left eye is rapidly swelling shut. His nose drips with two streams of blood.</p>
<p>Sam can hear footsteps again, clacking on the wet pavement. Another flashlight joins the first, and the two beams begin swaying and searching like spotlights.</p>
<p>“The fucking cops, Dean,” Sam says frantically. He taps Dean’s cheek like he’s seen Dean do to wake up Dad, back when Dad was alive to drink himself to sleep on the sofa every night.</p>
<p>Dean’s eyes flicker open. His pupils are blown wide. His eyes track lazily across the air, drift right past Sam without seeing him.</p>
<p>“Dean!” Sam takes Dean’s arm and starts tugging. “Get up, damn you! It’s Sam – it’s fucking Sammy and you gotta get up.”</p>
<p>“S’mmy?” Dean slurs.</p>
<p>“Get the fuck up!” Sam barks. He heaves, and it feels like his spine might be splintering, but maybe it’s the implication that Sam is somehow in trouble that makes Dean slightly more alert, because now Dean’s legs scrabble for purchase against the pavement.</p>
<p>Sam threads his brother’s arm over his shoulder. His heart hammers in his belly. The fucking cops are <em>coming</em>. Finally, they’re both on their feet. Sam takes one step forward; Dean isn’t ready for it. They barely avoid falling flat on their faces.</p>
<p>One of the flashlights drifts over them. Circles back. Fixes on their figures. Sam blinks in the sudden, stinging onslaught of light.</p>
<p>“Hey, you!” a man yells behind them.</p>
<p>“Stop!” another cop demands.</p>
<p>“Run!” Sam gasps, and he drags Dean forward. Dean struggles to keep up with Sam’s strides. Sam’s shoulders scream with the extra strain. He knows the cops saw them. He can hear the pounding of their footfalls behind them.</p>
<p>Sam keeps dragging Dean until he finally gets his feet under him enough to limp along. Together, they pelt toward the relative safety of the darkness. Sam hardly dares to breathe, just keeps his legs pumping, keeps his tight grip around Dean’s waist.</p>
<p>They run. They run until they can’t hear footsteps behind them anymore. Until they’re out from under the parkway and back inside the maze of familiar alleys. And they keep running. They keep running until Dean trips over his own feet and careens into the side of an apartment building.</p>
<p>Then they stop. Sam makes sure Dean’s steady against the wall before he lets go of his brother. He doubles over, gasping for breath, hacking up phlegm, palms braced on his knees. His entire body aches with a fiery, bone-deep burn. He’s shaking. He’s shaking so hard he’s worried he’s having some kind of convulsions.</p>
<p>“Benny,” Dean gulps, nearly a sob. “Benny.”</p>
<p>Sam swallows air until he thinks he’s going to throw up. He shuts his eyes. He tries to will it all away. Benny with a knife in his back. Dean with a blank look of sheer, one-track purpose as he stuck Michael in the chest. Luca beating Dean to a pulp on the ground. Sam wants it gone. He feels dirty. He feels sick. He wants to be in bed. He wants to be six years old again, listening to his brother read him a bedtime story.</p>
<p>“Sammy,” Dean says softly. “Sammy, you hurt?”</p>
<p>Sam’s eyes snap open. Dean’s still propped against the wall, and he must have tried to clean off his face with his sleeve, because the blood’s all smudged around now, and he’s looking at Sam with steady, gentle concern.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Sam says, swallowing bile. “I’m okay.”</p>
<p>“They see your face?” Dean says, nodding his head down the way they came to indicate the cops.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Sam says. Cold, slimy terror lands in Sam’s belly at the thought.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” Dean says, a little unevenly. His eyes are fever-bright with pain and exhaustion. “It’s okay, Sammy. They won’t find you. Won’t let ‘em.”</p>
<p>“Dean,” Sam whispers. He can’t help it: the deep, ingrained impulse that makes him turn to his big brother when he’s scared. “What are we gonna do, Dean?”</p>
<p>Dean sucks in a ragged, steadying breath. He puts a hand over his chest. His ribs must be giving him hell. “We’re gonna get out, Sammy,” Dean says. “Tonight. I’m gonna get you out a’ here, okay?”</p>
<p>Sam doesn’t understand, but Dean says it with so much conviction, so much raw candor, that Sam can’t help but believe him.</p>
<p>“But you gotta,” Dean pauses. He shuts his eyes, and his face blanches as he rides out a wave of pain. “You gotta,” his voice is fainter when he continues, “head to the apartment…pack up our stuff, okay?”</p>
<p>“Dean –”</p>
<p>“Let me finish,” Dean says sharply, and the flash of strength, a tone of command in his voice that reminds Sam of Dad, stops Sam mid-sentence. “Go and get our stuff and bring it to Turner’s yard. I got that car – you know the one I been working on. She’s almost ready. Was just – just putting on some finishing touches – but that don’t matter now. She runs, so that’s okay. So, you bring our stuff there, right? I’ll meet you.”</p>
<p>“Dean,” Sam whispers. “Where are you gonna go?” </p>
<p>“I gotta do something, Sammy,” Dean says vaguely. He’s looking at Sam’s face, pleading without words to do as he says. Sam knows that look. Every time Dad came home looking for a fight, Dean’d fix Sam with that look, begging him not to get between Dean and Dad’s fists.</p>
<p>“I can’t just leave you –”</p>
<p>“You gotta,” Dean says desperately.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” Sam tries again.</p>
<p>“Don’t follow me.”</p>
<p>“Dean, you’re hurt,” Sam protests. The words well up in his throat. Fill his eyes with hot tears. His brother is a mess. He can barely stand up by himself.</p>
<p>As though Dean heard Sam’s thoughts, he straightens himself against the wall, braces himself with one shoulder, and hides a wince. He spits out a wad of blood. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“You’re coming back, right?” Sam whispers, unable to put words to the numbing, nameless fear that suddenly slithers through his veins, turning his blood to ice water. “You ain’t gonna do anything stupid?”</p>
<p>“Of course, I’m coming back,” Dean says firmly. “I’m not gonna leave you, Sam. I’m gonna get us out of this, I promise.”</p>
<p>“You’re not back in an hour, I’m coming after you,” Sam warns. His chest hurts. He’s making a mistake, he knows it. He can fucking feel it aching in his body.</p>
<p>Dean smiles faintly; it’s a flash of something that’s maybe gratitude, or maybe pride, but it makes Sam’s heart swell.</p>
<p>“See you later, bitch,” Dean tells him.  </p>
<p>“Jerk,” Sam whispers, and he watches as Dean shoves off the wall and limps back the way they came. He watches long after Dean disappears into the darkness and his lopsided footfalls fade into silence.</p>
<p>Then Sam kicks himself forward again. He sprints down the familiar pathways back to their apartment. Every step jars something in his chest – he must have bruised a rib or two during the rumble. Unbidden, his mind turns to the rest of the guys. Sam didn’t have time to see where any of the other Hunters ended up when they scattered in the face of the police. He didn’t get a chance to see if any of them were badly hurt. If anyone else had pulled out knives or if that was just Michael and Benny.</p>
<p>And Dean. <em>Dean, Dean, Dean</em>, Sam thinks with every footfall. Dean killed Michael. Dean killed Michael and Benny’s dead and they’re leaving. Dean said they’re leaving. What the fuck are the going to do for money? How the fuck are they gonna get past the cops? Where are they going to live?</p>
<p>Sam takes it all – the entire mess, the frightening, shadowy things he doesn’t want to look too closely at – and shoves it far inside his mind. He can sort it out later. Right now, he needs to do what Dean says. He needs to go back to the apartment. He needs to get their clothes and food and money. He needs to get the picture of Mom, Dean, and Sam as a baby. He needs to get the picture of him, Dean, and Bobby in the garage that was taken during the war, when Dad was in the Philippines. He needs to get Dad’s journal he had with him in the Pacific. He needs to get Dean’s baseball mitt, Sam’s school notebooks, their shaving kits, Dad’s dog tags, the charred, half-melted remains of Mom’s record collection that Dad pulled out of the wreckage of their burned apartment.</p>
<p>The blow comes from behind: a sickening crack to the back of Sam’s head that sends him reeling, blacks out his vision and sets off pinprick firecrackers in the corners of Sam’s eyes. Sam pitches forward. He crashes into a wall, narrowly avoiding smashing his nose when he brings up his hands to cover his face.</p>
<p>“Where the fuck is he?” a poisonous hiss winds itself into Sam’s ear. Sam can feel hot breath on the back of his neck. A wiry, strong body pins him flat against the wall.</p>
<p>Sam’s head spins. Pain thuds from the back to the front of his head and then does it again in a repeating wave. He blinks furiously to get rid of the smudges across his vision.</p>
<p>“Where the fuck is your dirty, murdering brother, Sammy-boy?” Luca snarls.</p>
<p>“Get off,” Sam protests weakly. He struggles, but he can’t move an inch. His arms are pinned between his body and the wall. The brick digs into the soft skin of his cheek. Luca engulfs him almost entirely.</p>
<p>“Answer me when I ask you a question, Sammy-boy,” Luca says, liquid smooth and venomous as a snake.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Sam grunts. “Didn’t stick around to see.”</p>
<p>Luca takes hold of the back of Sam’s head. It happens so quickly, Sam doesn’t realize he’s done it until a fire brand of heat cracks through his skull. Sam’s face smashes into the brick as Luca whips his forehead into the wall. He hears rather than feels the sickening crunch of his nose breaking against the hard surface. Heat blossoms across Sam’s face, reaches a fever pitch. And then comes the pain, a glass shard of pain digging through his skull, burrowing in his brain.</p>
<p>Sam whimpers. He can’t see. He can’t fucking see –</p>
<p>There are hands on his body. Luca turns him around and shoves his back against the wall.</p>
<p>Sam realizes his eyes are closed. That’s why everything’s dark. He blinks them open. His eyes can’t focus: Luca’s face is a pale blur, only dark splotches where his eyes are supposed to be, like he’s some kind of otherworldly monster. Something that crawled up from Hell.</p>
<p>“You tell your brother,” Luca hisses, he pulls out a gun from his belt. He places the cool metal muzzle tight under Sam’s chin, “you tell him I’m looking for him. You tell him he can’t hide from me. You tell him he’s a dead man walking. Okay, Sammy-boy?”</p>
<p>Sam tries to breathe through the pain. He’s vision whirls. He’s going to pass out.</p>
<p>Luca digs the muzzle in deeper. Sam imagines him pulling the trigger. Sam imagines a gory spatter of blood and gray matter on the wall behind him.</p>
<p>“I said, okay, Sammy-boy?”</p>
<p>“O-okay,” Sam sputters.</p>
<p>“That’s my boy,” Luca sneers. He pats Sam’s cheek gently and pulls the gun away, tucking it back into his belt. He slips away down the alley.</p>
<p>Sam shuts his eyes tight. Agony spears through his head, rockets down his shoulders and spine. Bile rises in his throat and Sam collapses to his knees just as a stream of vomit spews from his lips. He gags and coughs. Throws up again, and this time it’s only a watery stream of bile.</p>
<p>He’s on all fours, shuddering hard. Gulping air in an effort to calm his stomach. Panic leaches through the pain. Luca has a gun. Luca has a gun and he’s going to kill Dean. Sam needs to get up. He needs to find Dean. He needs –</p>
<p>Sam needs help. He has no idea where Dean ran off to, and he can’t just sit around and wait for him to show up in Turner’s scrapyard. He needs to find the other Hunters. He needs them to help him find Dean.</p>
<p>Sam fumbles for the wall at his side. He claws his way back to his feet, using the wall as a crutch. His head throbs, another wave of nausea churns in his gut, but he waits it out, clutching the wall desperately so he doesn’t topple over again.</p>
<p>He sucks in another large breath to steady himself, then he totters forward. He has a couple false starts, stumbling against the bricks again, taking a second to wait for the spinning to stop, and then pushes off.</p>
<p>The Roadhouse, he thinks blearily. If the guys would gather anywhere, it’d be the Roadhouse. The playground’s too risky given the prowling cops. And they’re gonna want booze.</p>
<p>Sam’s only three blocks away. He can do this. He can do this for Dean. And his head aches with each step. His vision strobes. He pauses once to dry heave into a dumpster, but he keeps going.</p>
<p>“Sam, the hell?” a voice says, and strong, steady hands reach out to grab him. Sam doesn’t immediately recognize who it is, but his body relaxes immediately, so he thinks it must be a friend.</p>
<p>“Gotta –” Sam chokes. “Gotta – Roadhouse –”</p>
<p>“Yeah, we’re gathering there,” says the voice. It’s Victor, Sam realizes. Victor takes one of Sam’s arms and pulls it over his shoulders; Sam doesn’t fight him. Together they hobble down the last block. Someone holds open the door when they reach the Roadhouse, and then Victor spills Sam into the nearest chair.</p>
<p>“The fuck happened to him?” Christian asks.</p>
<p>“Luca,” Sam stammers. “Luca, he’s –”</p>
<p>“Easy, Sam,” Victor says softly. “Jo –”</p>
<p>But Jo’s already there, carrying a whiskey bottle and a shot glass. Her face is tense and pale, her hair disheveled. She taps the whiskey against the table, splashes a couple fingers into the glass, and then presses the lip to Sam’s mouth.</p>
<p>Sam drinks on instinct. The slightly warm, painfully bitter liquid scalds Sam’s throat. He chokes. “Son of a bitch!” and his eyes start streaming.</p>
<p>Victor chuckles and shakes his head. Sam sputters and spits on the floor, but the whiskey does its job and shocks him back to attention.</p>
<p>Most of the guys are already huddled in the Roadhouse: Chuck, Ash, Christian, and Adam. They’re all varying levels of bloody and bruised.</p>
<p>“We gotta find Dean,” Sam says.</p>
<p>“Where’d he go?” Jo asks.</p>
<p>“I dunno, do I? He just ran off,” Sam exclaims. “That’s why we gotta find him. Luca’s gunning for him.”</p>
<p>“The hell did you let him leave for?” says Ash.</p>
<p>“Fuck you!” Sam blurts out. He stands up. The room spins. “You left us. You fucking bastards – you left! You dumped me and Dean and ran like cowards.” Sam gets it now: the Hunters aren’t family. Not real family. Family don’t leave you bleeding under a highway. They don’t scatter to leave you to deal with the cops by yourself. Dean’s the only one who doesn’t leave – the only one who would never leave.  </p>
<p>“Cool it!” Victor shouts, standing between Ash and Sam. He says it just like Benny used to say it. The sight of Benny – Benny’s stunned face when he staggered into Dean’s arms – flashes across Sam’s eyes. His entire body goes frigid with cold sweat.</p>
<p>“Soon as they find the – the bodies,” Chuck stumbles over the word. “The cops are gonna be swarming this block.”</p>
<p>“That's why we gotta find him now!” Sam shouts.</p>
<p> “You see their faces?” Adam says in a hushed voice. Adam’s just a year older than Sam. He runs his hands through his hair so it all sticks up on end, like he plugged his finger in an electrical socket. He and Sam had a biology lab together once, and Adam told Sam he wanted to be a doctor. He dropped out of school last November after his mom was found gutted and dumped in a graveyard.</p>
<p>“Our man Dean just went <em>wham</em>!” Ash shouts suddenly, and he jabs his fist toward Chuck’s stomach like he’s holding a knife. Chuck recoils on instinct. Ash cackles.</p>
<p>“I said cool it!” Victor yells. He stalks over to Ash, grabs his shoulder and wheels him around. He barks into his face, “the fuzz start asking around and we gotta convince ‘em we don’t know anything about it, you get me? We gotta play it cool.”</p>
<p>“We gotta find Dean!” Sam yells. No one’s fucking listening to him. No one’s even fucking looking at him except Jo, who’s got a strange, half-angry, half-scared look blazing in her eyes.</p>
<p>“What the fuck do we owe Dean Winchester?” Christian spits. “That fairy ain’t brought us nothing but trouble –”</p>
<p>That’s as far as Christian gets before Sam’s in his face, holding the top half of the broken whiskey bottle against his neck. Sam doesn’t remember moving. But glass crunches underfoot and whiskey puddles and drips off the table, so Sam must have swung the bottle by the neck and shattered it against the edge.</p>
<p>There is a terrible, all-consuming rage pounding through Sam’s bloodstream. He feels infected with it. It clears his head, makes his hands steady, makes him feel powerful and in control. A small, distant part of his brain is screaming at him to put the glass down, is terrified he really is going to slice open Christian’s throat, but another, much larger part, doesn’t give a damn.</p>
<p>“You say a fucking word against my brother, and I swear…” Sam lets the threat hang. Christian crosses his eyes to try to keep the bottle in view; he’s shaking like a leaf, probably a second away from pissing himself in fear, and Sam smiles. He feels his lips contort, and he wonders if he looks as ugly and deranged as Luca did when he smashed Sam’s face into a wall.</p>
<p>“Samuel William Winchester!” The voice snaps through the air and recoils across Sam’s face like an open-palm slap.</p>
<p>Sam spins to see the door is open and Ellen Harvelle is standing on the threshold. She’s dressed in a nightgown and an open robe, tie trailing behind her. Her hair is up in curlers. She got her hands on her hips and slippers on her feet, and Sam swears to God, he’s never seen anything more terrifying in his life. The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor; it’s the only sound in the entire bar.</p>
<p>“You lay a finger on that boy and you’re responsible for mopping up the blood,” Ellen warns.</p>
<p>“Mom,” Jo squeaks. “How’d you – what are you –?”</p>
<p>“Someone’s been stealing my good liquor,” Ellen tells them fiercely. She marches into the bar. Slams the door shut behind her. “Figured it was you lousy kids.”</p>
<p>“Good liquor’s an oxymoron in this place, Miss Ellen,” Ash pipes up.</p>
<p>“Did I open the floor for comments?” Ellen demands.</p>
<p>“No, ma’am,” Ash replies meekly.  </p>
<p>“Sam, honey,” Ellen peers at him with concern. “Who put you through a meat grinder?”</p>
<p>“Ellen,” Sam says urgently – he can hear the hint of hysteria that’s entered his voice. All he can think about is Luca, Luca jabbing his gun under Sam’s chin, Luca out there trying to find Dean. He thinks about how it must be coming up on an hour now, and Sam promised Dean he’d fetch him if he wasn’t back by then. “We ain’t got time for this. We need to get to Dean!”</p>
<p>“We’ll get to him, Sam,” Victor cuts in smoothly. “Chuck, Ash, Adam?” He doesn’t mention Christian, who’s uncharacteristically silent and quelled now that Sam doesn’t have a shard of glass against his throat.</p>
<p>“Joanna Beth, you step out that door, young lady, and you’ll never walk again,” Ellen says without even turning. Jo stops mid-stride, eyes darting from Victor to her mother.</p>
<p>Victor shrugs and grimaces. “Hunters, move out.” Victor, Ash, Chuck, and Adam file out of the door. Christian slinks after them.</p>
<p>Sam moves to follow, but Ellen turns on him. “And you sit your ass down, Sam, or I’ll do it for you.”</p>
<p>“Ellen –” Sam says.</p>
<p>“Jo, get me a bowl of ice water and a rag,” Ellen ignores Sam entirely.</p>
<p>“He’s my Goddamn brother!” Sam shouts.</p>
<p>“And you ain’t gonna be any help to him if you bleed out where you stand,” Ellen says firmly. She clasps his shoulder and shoves him down hard into a chair. Sam suddenly realizes that all he can taste in his mouth is blood. His nose has apparently been steadily gushing this entire time, the stain down the front of his shirt growing with every passing moment.</p>
<p>Ellen tugs up another chair, and she swings a leg over it to straddle it. Sam looks away, but not before her dressing gown flaps open and Sam catches sight of something lacy and gray.</p>
<p>Ellen huffs a quiet laugh, “If my drawers are what makes you turn your head and not the prospect of slitting a man’s throat, then you got your priorities wrong, Sam Winchester.”</p>
<p>Jo comes back with a bowl and a couple dish towels. She puts them on the table within Ellen’s reach.</p>
<p>“You gonna stand there and look pretty, or you gonna mop up this mess?” Ellen eyes her daughter critically. Jo jumps into motion, darting behind the counter to retrieve a mop.</p>
<p>Sam’s palms itch. His blood simmers with the need to get out of there and get to Dean, but he knows he’s risking death or worse if he gets up before Ellen tells him he’s allowed to move.</p>
<p>“I ain’t gonna ask you what you boys got yourself into,” Ellen begins gruffly, but not unkindly, as she wets the rag and puts it against Sam’s face. Sam hisses under the shock of the cold and pressure against his aching nose. “Lord knows I’ve seen you get into enough trouble all the years I’ve known you. Ever since you were pipsqueaks in the corner of the bar waiting while your daddy drank up his life savings and lost your grocery money in card games. Lord knows I should have done more, then, but I was barely keeping afloat myself, trying to raise that one over there,” she jabs her thumb toward Jo, who’s busy mopping up the whiskey Sam got all over the floor, “and trying to work off the mortgage Bill dropped on this place –”</p>
<p>“Ellen,” Sam stammers out. “Ellen, it’s alright. We never expected you to – anything –”</p>
<p>Ellen shakes her head. “It ain’t alright, Sam,” she says heavily. “Nothing about this Godforsaken city has ever been alright.” She finishes cleaning up Sam’s face and drops the bloodied rag on the table. She picks up the other towel and fishes a couple ice cubes out of the bowl and knots the towel into a compress.</p>
<p>“You just hold that against your nose, Sam,” she says, and gets out of her chair to walk over to the counter. She pops the cap off a fifth of whiskey and pulls directly from the bottle. “See if you can’t get the swelling down.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Act Two: Scene Two, Somewhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There’s a graphic, intense, and emotionally complicated sex scene between Dean and Cas in this chapter. Both these boys are sexually repressed and acting out of extremely volatile emotions. Moreover, growing up in the 1940s and 50s means they have had no access to dialog about enthusiastic, affirmative consent. That said, the boys love and want to be intimate with each other. I hope this comes across, but if you see something else problematic happening in the scene, I'd love to have a conversation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Twice on the way to the Novas’ apartment Dean falls against a wall because he just stops breathing. Or at least that’s what it feels like. There’s the feeling of missing a step: that particular lurch in the base of his stomach that makes him feel like he’s about to drop into a one-hundred-foot freefall. His chest seizes up and his throat constricts, and everything inside his head spirals so tight it reaches a core of clean, screaming white panic.</p>
<p>And then it stops. Dean’s breath explodes out of his lips as his lungs expand. He gasps for a minute like one of those fish caught at the end of a pole off the pier. And the panic simmers back down to a manageable level, and Dean goes on.  </p>
<p>The scaffolding of the fire escape is just the same as it was before, and Dean can hardly believe that was just last night. He has slogged through forty years since then. Cas’s window is dark. It’s been less than an hour since the rumble broke up; maybe Cas isn’t even back to the apartment yet – maybe, Dean thinks with another horrible swoop in his stomach – Cas stumbled into a cop and didn’t know how to talk fast enough to get himself out of it.</p>
<p>Dean finds a bruise on his shoulder, left there by the toe of Luca’s shoe, and he squeezes it hard, grounding himself in the pain, not letting himself fall apart. Not yet. He can’t afford to fall apart yet. Not when Sammy’s waiting for him at Turner’s yard.</p>
<p>Dean pulls himself on top of the dumpster with difficulty. Before, when adrenaline chugged feverishly through his body, he hardly noticed the pain, but now that he’s been walking through the sluggish, sultry air for the past ten minutes, the aches have had time to solidify in his bones. And everything hurts.</p>
<p>Dean’s fairly certain he’s got at least three cracked ribs. And there’s a dull, formless ache that hops from one part of his skull to the next, almost like his brain is playing wall-ball in there. And a few of his fingers on his left hand are puffy, purple, and stiff, probably broken from when Luca crushed them under his heel.</p>
<p>Now that Dean looks at his hands, he sees that they’re filthy: coated with Benny and Michael’s blood. His fingers are tacky with it. All he can smell is iron.</p>
<p>Nausea burbles up his throat, and Dean takes a second to gulp it down before he attempts to make the leap to the bottom rung of the fire escape. Dean jumps and catches hold of the rung, but his shoulders shriek in pain from the weight of his free-hanging body. He almost slips off and plummets to the pavement, but he hangs on so tight his fingers cramp, and he torturously pulls himself up the ladder to the first landing.</p>
<p>Dean hangs onto the banister for dear life as he limps up the remaining flights of stairs. By the time he’s finally standing outside Cas’s window, his heart sputters in protest, and he’s dizzy enough that he knows one wrong step is going to send him crashing back down the stairs.</p>
<p>Dean can’t see through the curtains hanging over Cas’s window. As quietly as he can, he grips the windowsill and draws the window open. The pane glides out of the way noiselessly. He slips inside feet first, and his shoes land quietly as a cat on the threadbare carpet.</p>
<p>Dean’s eyes are already adjusted to the darkness outside, so he immediately sees the hulking shapes of Cas’s bed in the corner, a desk, and an armchair. And there’s a small, wooden cross, dark against the white wall. In front of this cross, there’s a silent, kneeling figure, rocking slightly, back and forth, toe to heel, muttering nearly soundlessly under their breath. It sounds like the whispering of the wind or the static between radio channels.</p>
<p>“Cas?” Dean breathes.</p>
<p>The figure unfolds and springs into motion; Cas’s pale face comes into relief under a shaft of moonlight spilling through the window.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Cas asks. His voice is cold and strange.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers. His lips are numb. He can barely lift his voice up his throat.</p>
<p>“What am I supposed to do?” Cas replies, but it doesn’t seem like he’s speaking to Dean. It’s like he’s still on his knees, still praying. Absurdly, Dean realizes Cas is only wearing a pair of blue-striped boxer shorts and a white undershirt. The clothes he wore to the rumble are discarded haphazardly across the floor, like he tore them loose as soon as he got to his room.</p>
<p>“Please, Cas,” Dean’s voice hitches. His eyes burn. He can’t – he can’t break down – he can’t. Once he gives in, he won’t be able to stop.</p>
<p>“Am I supposed to kill you now?” Cas inquires. He cocks his head like a curious bird. His face is utterly void of emotion. Dean thinks he might be looking at some kind of horrible, uncanny mannequin. “Is that how it works, Dean? An eye for an eye. A life for a life. You killed my brother, so now I must also kill you?”</p>
<p>Dean tugs in a shuddering breath. The horrible, gripping fear is back. He can’t breathe. He furiously begs his heart to keep pumping. “Whatever you – Cas. Whatever you want.”</p>
<p>And Dean can’t do it. He can’t face Cas for another second. He can’t bear Cas’s lifeless, cruel eyes. He can’t. His muscles liquify. His knees crash to the ground with two hard cracks, and pain reverberates through his ribs and up his spine, thuds in his head. Dean curls inward on himself, like he did when Luca was beating him. Makes himself a smaller target. He hurts. Oh God, he hurts.</p>
<p>“Cas, I tried…” Dean tells his knees. “Oh, <em>God</em> I didn’t mean it. Please, Cas, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t wanna hurt him. I promised – I promised you – but he killed Benny. He – Cas, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. Please, I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>Dean is weak. He is disgusting. He is pathetic. He is crying. Hot tears spill from his eyes, sting the cuts on his face, and seep through his fingers, wetting the blood on his hands and running it pink into the carpet.</p>
<p>For a minute there’s just silence, torn ragged by the animal-like grunts spilling from Dean’s throat as he sobs.</p>
<p>And then the floor creaks under a pair of bare feet. Dean sees Cas’s toes in front of him, curling into the carpet, and then Cas’s knees drop past Dean’s eyes as Cas kneels.</p>
<p>“You’re hurt,” Cas whispers. His warm, soft hand lands on the side of Dean’s face, prods at the puffy bruising around Dean’s eye.</p>
<p>“D-don’t,” Dean begs him. But he subconsciously turns his head into the touch. Cas doesn’t pull away.</p>
<p>“Did Luca do this?” Cas asks.</p>
<p>“I wish he killed me,” Dean moans into Cas’s palm.</p>
<p>Cas moves his hand from Dean’s cheek, gently threads his fingers under Dean’s chin, and lifts his face. Dean can’t focus on Cas’s face. His depth perception is shot, and his vision is fuzzy in one eye where the swelling’s the worst. But Dean can see the blueness of Cas’s eyes flashing in the moonlight. His face is no longer hard or blank with hatred. Instead, he looks soft and concerned, almost like a little boy confronted by something he doesn’t understand.</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t say such things,” Cas says. His lips wobble. He grabs Dean’s hands and pulls them both into his lap. He massages Dean’s palms open with his thumbs. Every touch sends an electric shock of heat up Dean’s arms. Cas gingerly prods the places on Dean’s fingers where the knuckles are puffy and red. </p>
<p>“Cas,” Dean whimpers. And he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He only knows that the kindness in Cas’s face fills Dean with dread. Because Dean can take Cas’s hatred. He can take Cas’s coldness. He can take Cas’s violence. But he cannot stomach Cas’s forgiveness. Dean thinks it will kill him.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t your fault,” Cas says.</p>
<p>Dean’s chest slices open. Long, poisonous claws shred muscle, flesh, and bone. His ribs crack under strong, vicious jaws. Dean is being torn apart. He shuts his eyes. Shake his head. His mouth drops in a silent scream of agony.</p>
<p>“No,” he breathes.</p>
<p>Cas’s fingers drop Dean’s hands. Instead, he takes hold of Dean’s face again, one palm on each of his cheeks, and stills Dean’s shaking head.</p>
<p>“You are beautiful,” Cas says slowly, reverently.</p>
<p>“S-stop,” Dean gasps. He is ugly. Can’t Cas see it? Can’t Cas see his brother’s blood staining Dean’s skin. Can’t Cas see the violence that taints Dean’s soul? Can’t Cas see it? How can Cas stand to touch him? How can Cas stand to breathe the same air Dean breathes?</p>
<p>Cas drops a quiet, gentle kiss to the crown of Dean’s head. His lips are soft and steady. Dean must taste like blood and sweat.</p>
<p>“Don’t,” Dean moans. He tries to fall away from Cas’s grip, but Cas doesn’t let go of his face. And Dean feels paralyzed, like someone opened his mouth and funneled in a truckload of cement, and now it’s dried up inside his skin. He’s fossilized.</p>
<p>Cas removes his hands from Dean’s face, but only to pick up Dean’s hands again. He lifts the back of Dean’s right fist to his own face. Cas’s cheeks are flush with heat, damp with water, and Dean realizes that Cas is crying, too.</p>
<p>“L-let me go,” Dean begs him. “P-please.”</p>
<p>Cas draws Dean’s knuckles to his lips. He kisses the base of each bloodied, bruised finger. Then he wraps his hand around Dean’s, entwines their fingers together.</p>
<p>“S-stop,” Dean pleads. He lifts his freed left hand to his face and covers his eyes. He doesn’t want Cas to look at him. He curls his head toward the floor, but Cas guides his face to his lap. He puts his fingers in Dean’s matted hair.</p>
<p>Cas leans over Dean’s arched body until Dean is entirely engulfed by him. Dean shudders against Cas’s thighs. Cas lets go of his hand and spreads his fingers across Dean’s shoulder blades. One hand works through Dean’s tangled hair. The other sweeps wide strips across Dean’s shuddering back, gliding from one shoulder to the other, crackling the old leather of Dean’s jacket.</p>
<p>Dean’s hand convulses into a fist around the bottom of Cas’s undershirt. Dean is surrounded by Cas. He can feel the hair of Cas’s upper leg against his hand. He can smell the musty scent of cotton and dried sweat.</p>
<p>“Shhh,” Cas whispers into his ear, and his breath tickles Dean’s skin under his ear. Cas presses his lips to the base of Dean’s skull. Kisses the knob of bone where Dean’s neck meets his spine.</p>
<p>Dean nuzzles his face into Cas’s belly. He rubs his face against Cas’s shirt, leaving trails of flaky, dried blood, salty tears, and snot.</p>
<p>Cas kisses the back of Dean’s neck once, twice, drags his lips across the skin until his humid breath warms Dean’s ear again. A shiver skims down Dean’s spine, and he jerks against Cas’s lap.</p>
<p>“<em>Ti amo</em>,” Cas whispers into Dean’s ear, and he takes Dean’s earlobe into his mouth. Dean can feel the hard ridge of Cas’s teeth against the soft skin. “I love you.”</p>
<p>“No,” Dean wails. “N-no.” His blood is ice. Freezing him from the inside out. He shakes until his teeth rattle and Cas holds him.</p>
<p>“You deserve to be saved,” Cas tells Dean.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Dean replies. He grips the bottom of Cas’s shirt so hard his left hand spasms with pain and he thinks his fingernails poke tiny holes into the fabric. He rucks up Cas’s shirt until he can see the rolls of his stomach above the waistband of his boxers.</p>
<p>There’s a line of dark, coarse hair circling Cas’s navel and disappearing into his shorts. Dean follows it with his nose. He presses his lips against Cas’s warm, smooth skin, just above his waistband.</p>
<p>Cas stifles a groan deep inside his throat. The sound is husky and rough. Dean feels it rumble through Cas’s abdominal muscles. It makes Dean’s blood thaw, fills his veins with fire. Blood rushes to Dean’s face and head, thuds, deafening, in his ears. Races to his stomach and his groin.</p>
<p>Dean can feel Cas expand beneath him. His cock tents his boxers and digs into Dean’s neck from where Dean is leaning over him. Dean loosens his grip on Cas’s shirt. Instead, he slips his finger under Cas’s waistband. Cas squirms. His thighs shift under Dean, and his dick bumps Dean’s chin.</p>
<p>Dean moves his face. He opens his mouth and breathes against the rod of tight flesh under Cas’s shorts. Cas’s breath hitches, and the sound rockets through Dean’s chest. Dean opens his lips and mouths gently against the tip of Cas’s cock through the fabric. Cas’s hand closes hard around Dean’s shoulder. It sends a ripple of pain down Dean’s achy muscles, but he ignores it. </p>
<p>Dean slips another finger under the elastic and inches downward. His fingertip brushes the first curls of Cas’s pubic hair. His skin is petal soft at the crease of his thigh.  </p>
<p>“Let me,” Dean begs. “Please, let me, Cas.”</p>
<p>But Cas pulls sharply away. He sits up on his heels, and Dean’s fingers pull loose from his shorts. Dean looks up and blinks at him in confusion, not sure what he did wrong. There’s a wild, half-dangerous look in Cas’s eyes.</p>
<p>Cas’s hands land on the collar of Dean’s jacket. He pulls it off Dean’s shoulders with a commanding tug that makes Dean’s stomach curl in on itself. His heart beats so quickly, it aches. His fingers are numb, and he struggles to help Cas with the jacket, tangling the sleeves on his arms in his rush.</p>
<p>Finally, Cas’s steadier hands take over and throw Dean’s jacket off. And then he lunges for Dean’s face. Their lips crash together. The bruising around Dean’s eye throbs. Teeth hit teeth. Cas shoves his tongue into Dean’s mouth so quickly, Dean gags on it.</p>
<p>Dean has never been kissed like this before. He’s used to demure, shy girls who barely know how to open their lips. He’s used to wandering hands in the back of dance halls. He isn’t used to this: all sloppy, raw passion and someone else taking the lead. Cas has one hand around Dean’s jaw and he holds him so tight, Dean can’t even think about pulling him off. His thumb digs into Dean’s face with enough force to leave another bruise.</p>
<p>And Dean’s stomach swells. Swoops. Again, the lurch of missing a step, but this time it isn’t panic: it’s dangerous, thrilling desire. Dean wants. Dean wants Cas so badly he can taste it on the back of his throat like bile. His dick presses almost painfully against the fly of his pants.</p>
<p>He wants Cas’s hands on him. He wants Cas’s skin. He wants Cas’s mouth.</p>
<p>And, under all of it, is the guilty nagging that Dean doesn’t deserve this. Cas is insane. Dean killed Cas’s brother. Stuck a knife up to the hilt in his chest, and Michael didn’t even raise a hand to stop him. Dean wants Cas to hit him, not kiss him. Dean wants Cas to take a knife and carve out Dean’s stomach. To etch curses into his skin.</p>
<p><em>Stop</em>. But Dean can’t speak with Cas’s tongue in his mouth, tangling with Dean’s own tongue, running across Dean’s teeth and poking into every corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>Dean wrenches his face away, puts a hand on Cas’s chest and pushes. Cas pulls back enough to fix Dean with questioning eyes, and there is too much trust there, too much softness, kindness, and hunger that Dean can’t stand it. There’s a streak of blood on Cas’s cheek from where it rubbed off from Dean’s face. Dean shuts his eyes tight. He struggles to get his fingers back around Cas’s waistband.</p>
<p>“Let me. Let me,” he pleads, and his voice trips over itself on its way out his tight throat. His eyes burn behind his lids.</p>
<p>But Cas shuffles backward. Frustration rears inside Dean’s brain, and the only thought that sticks in his mind is that Dean wants to do this for Cas, that Cas isn’t letting him, that Dean has to – has to because Cas shouldn’t want to touch Dean. Dean doesn’t deserve to be touched. And, if Dean can help Cas, if he can make it good, if he can give Cas pleasure, then it’s okay. They’ll be back to square one. Back on level ground.</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t want to be in anyone’s debt, let alone Cas’s. Not when Dean already owes him more than he could ever pay.</p>
<p>“I-I want to –” Dean sputters, and he goes in with his other hand, even though it makes his broken fingers cramp with pain. “<em>Let me</em>.”</p>
<p>But Cas’s hands are suddenly wrapped around both of Dean’s wrists, and the look in his eye is fierce. There’s an inward light simmering there, something that knocks the breath out of Dean’s lungs.</p>
<p>“Not like this,” Cas snarls. He brings both Dean’s hands to his chest, clasps them together like he’s tied them with twine, and he might as well have because Dean’s muscles are liquid and pliable; he can’t move unless Cas tells him to.</p>
<p>Maybe Cas can read minds; maybe he knows exactly what Dean’s trying to do. Dean hates it. And he hates Cas. He fucking hates Cas. Cas and his <em>you deserve to be saved.</em> Cas and his fucking <em>I love you</em>.</p>
<p>“F-fuck you,” Dean says. It catches in his throat like a sob. A tear slips out of his closed eyelid and runs down his cheek, beads on his chin, and Cas catches it with his lips.</p>
<p>Cas kisses the underside of Dean’s chin. Kisses Dean’s throat. Kisses Dean’s juddering Adam’s apple. Moves aside the collar of Dean’s shirt and kisses Dean’s clavicle. A shudder runs through Dean’s body, and he melts. He pitches toward Cas’s chest, and Cas catches him with strong hands on his elbows.</p>
<p>Cas gently lifts Dean from the ground. Dean’s knees threaten to give way, but Cas clutches him unforgivingly and leads him to the bed. The backs of Dean’s legs hit the mattress, and he collapses automatically.</p>
<p>Dean’s ribs give a twinge of protest when Cas lays him on his side. He can’t help the gasp of pain that leaves his lips even though he tries to bite it down. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want Cas to care about him. He wants Cas to stop touching him kindly. He wants to hurt.</p>
<p>Cas <em>tsks</em> low in his throat at Dean’s sound of distress and rolls Dean over onto his back. Dean is weak from tears, from the residue of the fight, from the poisoned blood pumping through his body that makes him pliant in Cas’s hands, and Dean is ragdoll-limp in Cas’s arms.</p>
<p>The mattress dips as Cas joins him, sitting on the edge of the bed.</p>
<p>“Look at me,” Cas asks, but it zips through Dean’s body like an order, and Dean’s eyes open on command.</p>
<p>Cas is very close. As close as he was when they danced together in the alley. As close as they were when they kissed in front of the dias.</p>
<p>“We must be quiet. Anna and Alfie are downstairs with my Aunt Naomi. I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay with them,” Cas tells him, and for the first time Dean sees the glimmer of uncertainty in Cas’s eyes. The furrow in his brows that betrays his second-guessing every movement, every word, every touch. He chews his lip, and Dean knows Cas has never done this. That he needs Dean to tell him it’s okay.</p>
<p>That knowledge pools warmly in Dean’s stomach. Reassurance, Dean knows how to do. And he nods curtly in understanding.</p>
<p>Cas’s eyes soften. He drops his face and kisses Dean on the lips, the ferocity of the moment before is gone. It’s just gentle, steady pressure. Dean moves first, this time. He slides the tip of his tongue into Cas’s mouth, runs along the dampness of Cas’s lower lip.</p>
<p>Cas’s hands move; one lands on the side of Dean’s face, fingers raking through his hair and fingers rubbing a circle near the corner of Dean’s mouth. The other hand creeps under Dean’s shirt, splays wide across Dean’s stomach so Dean can feel each hot point of contact at the end of Cas’s five fingers.</p>
<p>Dean separates the kiss enough to speak.</p>
<p>“C-Cas,” Dean says. His balls are starting to ache. He’s hard enough that it’s the only thing he can think about. “I-I can’t….” he lifts his hands to demonstrate, and Cas sees Dean’s shaking, clumsy fingers. His muscles are liquid. “Help.”</p>
<p>Understanding leaps into Cas’s eyes, and his hand leaves Dean’s stomach to fumble at Dean’s belt, instead. He undoes the buckle. Pops the two top buttons of Dean’s slacks.</p>
<p>Dean’s breath hitches, once, twice in his throat. He squeezes his eyes tight. <em>Stop stop stop don’t fucking stop</em>, someone screams inside his head. And he knows, theoretically, how guys do it. The mechanics of it. But all he can think about is it hurting. All he can think about is how badly he wants Cas to draw back and slap him across the face, spit at him, tell him how disgusting he is, to think Cas could possibly love a filthy monster like him. A killer. A murderer.</p>
<p>“Hurt me,” Dean says. The words scrape up his throat so sharply, he imagines he can taste blood. “Please, hurt me.”</p>
<p>And Cas pauses between tugging down the fly of Dean’s pants. He pulls his fingers away. He presses his lips hard against Dean’s lips and growls, low and possessive in a way that makes Dean’s spine tingle.</p>
<p>“Don’t,” he orders Dean. “Do not ask me that. I will never hurt you.”</p>
<p>Dean gasps, open-mouthed, against Cas’s lips. And his dick begs for some kind of friction. It’s out of his fly now, bulging into the front of his boxers. Dean wants Cas’s hands so badly, a sob chokes him in his throat. But Cas is just kissing him now, slow, torturous, insistent.</p>
<p>Finally, Dean can’t stand it, anymore, and he ruts his hips into empty air. A groan of frustration falls out of his lips.</p>
<p>Cas moves his hand back to Dean’s stomach. He lifts Dean’s shirt and rucks it nearly all the way up his torso. Cas’s lips leave Dean’s mouth and travel back down his neck, jump over the folds of Dean’s shirt, and land on Dean’s bare chest. He kisses down the center of Dean’s sternum. Dean arches his back under his touch, and his hand lands on Dean’s ribs, holding him steady.</p>
<p>His lips ghost across Dean’s nipple. His tongue flicks out, sucking so carefully it’s like he’s afraid Dean will break. So painfully gentle, Dean wants to scream.</p>
<p>“Cas,” he begs hoarsely, head swimming with so many thoughts and feelings he can hardly form coherent words. The one thought that raises hazily to the surface is an abstract feeling of want. Burrowed so deep and insistent it is indefinable. “Cas, please. I – need. <em>Cas</em>.” </p>
<p>Cas pulls back again. Fixes Dean with his piercing, ocean blue eyes, and asks, “Can I?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Dean gulps. It tears out of him immediately. He isn’t even entirely sure what Cas is asking to do. “Please, God, yes.”</p>
<p>Cas gets off the bed. His hands find his waistband and he tugs down, dropping his boxers to his ankles. He steps out of them, and Dean’s eyes are on Cas’s cock, pink and erect, a drop of precum glistening at the tip, and, Dean notes, uncircumcised. Which is – it’s not like it’s strange. Dean didn’t expect it to be <em>strange</em>. It’s just – so sue, him, it’s not like Dean’s seen a ton of dicks in his life.</p>
<p>Then Cas’s hands go to Dean’s pants again. He tugs them down to Dean’s thighs. His boxers come next, and Dean nearly sobs in relief to finally be free of the confining fabric, and his dick flips heavily onto his stomach.</p>
<p>Cas carefully swings a leg over Dean’s waist, until he’s straddling Dean, knee on each side of Dean’s hips, staring down at Dean. Dean’s never not been on top before. He’s used to it being the other way around. The only time he’s ever seen someone staring down at him like that it’s been in the middle of a fight.</p>
<p>And the thought simmers for a minute in his belly, feeling almost like fear, but then Cas leans over him. Presses lips to lips, and it goes away. Everything goes away except for that searing point of Cas’s mouth on his. Cas braces his arms on either side of Dean’s head and slowly lowers his hips. He drags his cock against Dean’s pelvis, and Dean rises to meet him, so their cocks slide together.</p>
<p>Dean groans. Above him, Cas is panting. His eyes are shut.</p>
<p>Cas’s shoulders tremble from the effort of keeping his full weight off Dean’s hurt ribs, so Dean reaches down between them with his good hand until his fingers are on Cas’s stomach, he slides his hand down and grips Cas’s shaft. It’s hot and thick in his fingers, and Dean’s never touched a guy’s dick before – he’s thought about it plenty of times, shame-faced in his bed at night or in the shower – but he’s never –</p>
<p>And it’s basically like touching his own, really. It’s almost the same shape and size. The same sticky, smooth, delicate skin, vein underneath, and the hood around the tip is already withdrawn. Dean thumbs over the slit, smearing precum on his fingers and down the shaft, slicking up the surface before he gets a good grip.</p>
<p>Cas’s breath saws out of his mouth. His chest heaves against Dean’s.</p>
<p>“Dean,” he whispers. “Dean, don’t – don’t stop.”</p>
<p>“I’ve got you,” Dean replies. “Gonna make it good. Real good.”</p>
<p>Cas readjusts on top of Dean. He twists to the side and props himself on his right shoulder, keeps his left leg hooked over Dean’s. It frees up Cas’s other hand to reach between them and grab hold of Dean. That first touch is jolting and magnetic. Dean sucks in a breath through his teeth.</p>
<p>Cas fumbles around the base of Dean’s cock. Dean immediately realizes that Cas, despite his mastery in kissing and teasing and getting Dean onto the bed, obviously doesn’t know his way too well around a dick. His hands are too dry and, despite their softness, feel rough around Dean’s shaft.</p>
<p>“Here,” Dean whispers. He wraps his hand around Cas’s and guides it up to Dean’s mouth. One by one he sucks Cas’s fingers into his mouth. Cas trembles, and something like a whine spills out of his lips. Dean finishes by licking a wide stripe down Cas’s palm, and Cas gets the picture. He returns his hand to Dean’s dick, moistened now with Dean’s spit.</p>
<p>Dean tries to keep up a rhythm like he uses on himself. And he notices Cas is following his pattern. Slowing when Dean slows, speeding up when Dean speeds up. Cas’s eyebrows pucker in something like concentration. He keeps his eyes screwed shut.</p>
<p>Whatever he’s doing, it’s working, and Dean can’t help but whimper as heat pools warmly in his stomach. He’s not going to last long. His head spins, and his orgasm winds tighter inside him. Churns low and insistent in a whirlpool at his core.</p>
<p>Dean remembers what Cas said about staying quiet, and he swallows back the shout that rises in his throat. He bites his lip until he tastes blood. His stomach clenches so hard it almost hurts, and then, like a snapped rubber band, it releases and the energy swarms outward, an electric charge radiating from his center.</p>
<p>White ropes spurt across his stomach. A breath punches out of Dean’s lungs. Dizziness swarms into his skull. And Cas keeps jerking him through it. And Dean tries not to lose his own rhythm on Cas’s cock. Keeps pulling, and Cas is making these little breathy, startled gasps –</p>
<p>Cas comes with a grunt. Sticky, warm fluid spills over Dean’s hand. Cas collapses, half on top of Dean, but even in his distraction, he’s managed to keep the majority of his weight off Dean’s ribs. He’s trembling, a full-bodied tremor like his bones are vibrating.</p>
<p>A grin spreads across Dean’s lips, slow and sloppy. He’s too dopey on after-sex-feelings to bother feeling guilty, right now. Cas is warm and loose and heavy on top of him. Kind of like they’re cuddling, or something. And it’s okay. It feels okay.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” he whispers. “Holy shit, Cas.”</p>
<p>Cas doesn’t answer. He nuzzles his face into the side of Dean’s neck, and it’s only then that Dean feels the warmth and wetness against his skin.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” he says in an entirely different voice, and he rises onto an elbow, dislodging Cas. Cas immediately hides his face into the disheveled quilt beneath him. “You’re crying,” Dean says. His own tears have by now dried to gluey stripes on his cheeks, and his orgasm’s cleared his mind; he doesn’t feel quite so out of control anymore.</p>
<p>“Cas,” he says urgently, and he reaches a hand toward Cas’s shoulder, but he realizes it’s the one that’s covered in Cas’s jizz, so he pauses for long enough to wipe it off as best as he can on the edge of Cas’s quilt; ain’t like it’s clean anymore, anyway. Then he puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “You – you okay? Did I…” Dean doesn’t know what to ask. Did he do something wrong? Did he hurt Cas somehow?</p>
<p>“I’m alright,” Cas says roughly, voice muffled in the mattress. He draws in a breath that shudders all the way down his body.</p>
<p>Dean angles himself on his side with difficulty, hiding a wince when he jars his ribs. He wraps his arm around Cas’s back, draws him close to Dean’s skin. Dean buries his face in Cas’s mussed, dark hair. He breathes deeply and smells more of Cas. Dean thinks he could get high off that scent, alone.</p>
<p>“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers and presses his lips to the crown of Cas’s head. “I’ve got you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Act Two: Scene Three, A Boy Like That</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cas does not know where Luca went when he dropped Cas off at Naomi’s, told Anna and Alfie that Michael was dead, and then rushed off again. Cas does not care. All that matters is that Luca is not home. And Anna and Alfie are in the apartment downstairs. And Cas and Dean are alone, utterly, peacefully alone.</p>
<p>All there is is Dean. His hard, strong chest and back with his rippling muscles. His sturdy, knowing hands. His calm, comforting arms around Cas’s shoulders as he cries himself dry and finally hiccups into exhausted silence against Dean’s shirt.</p>
<p>Michael is dead. Luca is gone. But Dean is here. And Cas, God help him, but Cas is so glad. So horribly, spitefully glad that it had been Michael to die and not Dean. Cas shudders a little and presses his face further into Dean’s chest. Dean hushes him and tightens his grip across Cas’s back.</p>
<p>Now that Cas has stopped crying and the adrenaline of their encounter drains away, Cas becomes aware of how stale Dean’s shirt smells. How sticky and moist it is between Cas’s legs. Dean had preliminarily cleaned himself up and pulled his boxers and pants back up, but Cas was still lying there, naked from the waist down, lying in a pool of drying sweat and ejaculate.</p>
<p>He supposes, somewhere in the back of his mind where he dared imagine what sex would be like, that he always knew it would be messy. He even wondered if he might somehow be a little disgusted by it. But he finds that not to be the case, at all. He is, perhaps, a little uncomfortable, but he is not repulsed. In fact, he does not have any inclination to move, at all, even if it meant cleaning up. </p>
<p>“Cas,” Dean whispers.</p>
<p>Cas hums into Dean’s shirt. Dean pulls back a little, and Cas looks up. Dean’s delightful green eyes and freckled face, marred by ugly bruising left by Luca’s fists, fall into focus.</p>
<p>“Cas,” Dean begins again, and he swallows. He looks suddenly nervous, Cas realizes, and the good feeling that was buzzing through Cas’s blood, shrivels away.</p>
<p>“What?” Cas demands, sitting up. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“I gotta –” Dean hesitates. “Sammy’s waiting for me. I gotta leave.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Cas says. And it is disappointing, yes, but it is not terrible. Dean needs to see his little brother; Cas can understand this. But it isn’t as though Dean is saying goodbye –</p>
<p>“We – we’re leaving, Cas,” Dean says. He looks at the opposite wall. His throat bobs. His earlier tears have left tracks in the blood on his face.</p>
<p>Cas’s heart plummets. “Oh,” he repeats.</p>
<p>“We – we gotta, Cas,” Dean says rapidly. All at once. Ripping off the band-aid. The pain is sharp and sudden. “The cops’ll be looking for me. And I can’t – I can’t do that to Sammy. I won’t let them take me away from him again.”</p>
<p>“I understand,” Cas says. His voice does not sound like his voice inside his own ears. He sounds recorded and synthetic. He thinks about Catherin in <em>A Farewell to Arms:</em></p>
<p><em>I’m afraid of the rain because sometimes I see me dead in it</em>.</p>
<p>Dead in the street. Cas never thought blood was so dark and red.</p>
<p>Dean pulls in a quiet, sharp pull of breath, and, when he turns back to look at Cas, his eyes are a little wild. He fumbles for Cas’s hands and pulls them both into his lap, digs his thumbs hard into Cas’s palms.</p>
<p>“Come with us,” Dean implores. “Please – it’s crazy. I get that it’s crazy. But – please. Please, Cas. I – and Sammy won’t mind. Sammy’ll like you. Please –”</p>
<p>Dean’s words do something strange inside Cas’s stomach: it’s like he’s suddenly filled with hot air. It goes right to his head and makes him dizzy. And oh. <em>Oh</em>. Dean isn’t saying goodbye, after all. Dean wants Cas to come with him.</p>
<p>“Wh-where would we go?” Cas says stupidly. Stupidly, because, logically, he knows this is nothing but a dream. They have no money. Cas cannot leave his family. There is nowhere that would have them. Cas understands that the world they live in will not take kindly to him and Dean.</p>
<p>“Somewhere – anywhere!” Dean declares.</p>
<p>“How, Dean?” Cas asks desperately. “We cannot –”</p>
<p>“It ain’t us, Cas,” Dean interrupts. He runs a hand through his hair, something Cas has realized by now he does when he’s distressed. It leaves his short hair standing up on end. “It’s everything around us. And there’s gotta be someplace out there, Cas. And Sammy won’t mind. I know he won’t – p-please, Cas –”</p>
<p>It’s the little wobble in Dean’s voice that does it. Cas’s heart unspools. He loves him, Cas knows, better than he has ever known anything before in his life. He loves Dean. He would do anything for Dean. He would die for him. He would leave for him.</p>
<p>He thinks about Catherine and Frederic: <em>My life used to be full of everything. Now if you aren’t with me I haven't a thing in the world.</em></p>
<p>But that is not something he can possibly say aloud, so, still, he protests, “I cannot leave. Anna and Alfie….”</p>
<p>Dean’s face plummets; it’s the wrong thing to say. Cas understands: for Dean, family is sacred. If Cas says he cannot leave his family, then Dean will not ask him to. And Cas looks into Dean’s crushed, glistening green eyes, his open and devastated face – he thinks about Dean fighting back at the rumble because Sam had been attacked, Dean leaving because he needs to protect his little brother – and it occurs to Cas that this, asking Cas to come with him, might be the only time in his life that Dean has asked for something for himself.</p>
<p>“It’s okay, Cas –” Dean starts, but he cuts off with a muffled sound of surprise when Cas surges forward and kisses him.</p>
<p>“I’ll come,” Cas whispers. His innards tumble. He is crazed and dizzy with half-elation, half-fear. “Of course, I’ll come, Dean.”</p>
<p>Dean’s smile starts slow and uncertain, but then it becomes a beam of light, so wide it hurts something deep inside Cas’s core. He vows to make Dean smile like that as often as possible.</p>
<p>“Cas, you don’t hav’ta –” Dean begins, but the hope in his eyes is so raw, Cas can’t imagine tearing himself away now.</p>
<p>Someone knocks, hard and frantic against Cas’s door. Dean startles and tries to leap off the bed, but his legs get tangled in the mussed quilt, and he stifles a curse. They’d both been too engaged with each other to hear anyone come into the apartment.</p>
<p>“Castiel?” Anna cries from the other side of the door. “Please,” there is fear in her voice. Fear and pain. “Open the door, please, Castiel.” Cas’s doorknob rattles, and he thanks God he had the foresight to lock it when he first came up to his room.</p>
<p>“Go,” Cas turns to Dean. He pulls him off the floor and pushes him slightly toward the still open window. His curtains flutter, in and out, like they’re breathing in the heavy summer breeze. “Hurry,” Cas hisses.</p>
<p>Dean snatches his leather jacket off the floor and slings it over his shoulder. Cas realizes he still isn’t wearing his boxers, and he fumbles for them on the ground. He struggles to pull them up one leg after the other, and he realizes he’s put them on backwards too late to try again, because Dean’s already got one leg out of the window, and Anna is still knocking.</p>
<p>“Please, Castiel, wake up!” Anna pleads. “I need you.”</p>
<p>It makes Dean pause, eyes wide as saucers as he looks at Cas. “Cas…”</p>
<p>“No,” Cas says at once. He closes the distance between them. He presses his lips to Dean’s mouth to shut him up. He knows what Dean would offer to do for Cas so that Cas doesn’t have to leave his family, but Cas will not accept it.</p>
<p>Dean watches him for a minute, eyes snatching ahold of his face, before he finally nods and tugs away, ducking under the window. He lands on the fire escape outside and sticks his head back in. “You know Singer’s Auto on 99th? It’s about four blocks down from the playground.”</p>
<p>“I think so, yes,” Cas replies.</p>
<p>“I’ll be there, okay?” Dean says. “I work for Bobby – he’s good people. He’ll…we’re gonna need money.”</p>
<p>“Okay, Dean.” Cas says. He bends through the window for another kiss.</p>
<p>“Castiel, <em>please</em>!” Anna begs on the other side of the door, and Cas’s chest twinges with guilt.</p>
<p>Dean pulls away and gives Cas a swift smile. Then he swings himself on the banister and races down the stairs, feet clunking on the metal.</p>
<p>Cas slides his window shut, and then races to the door. “Anna, I’m coming,” he says hastily. He fumbles for the lock, and then pulls the door open.</p>
<p>Anna’s backlit by the light from the hall. Cas doesn’t need to see her face to know immediately that she’s frowning. It’s in the way she holds her shoulders. The sharp angle of her chin.</p>
<p>“Who were you talking to?” Anna says. Her voice is hoarse with old tears, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s wearing a long, pale blue dressing gown that Cas thinks once belonged to their mother. She rubs her face on the sleeve.</p>
<p>“No one,” Cas says at once.</p>
<p>Anna gives him a sharp glance, and Cas’s heart sinks; his sister has always been able to tell when he’s lying. Anna takes a step through the door. Her eyes rove from one corner of the room to the next, taking in, Cas knows, the bits and pieces of his clothes strewn across the floor: his shoes, socks, pants, and jacket. Her eyes linger for a minute on the disheveled bed.</p>
<p>Cold dread slips into Cas’s bloodstream; he tells himself the bed looks that way because he’d been sleeping in it. Anna woke him up, and Cas had just been sleeping. But there’s a sharp, bitter tang in the air like sweat and something else; Cas knows it smells like sex. Castiel feels ridiculous, standing there in only his undershirt and backwards shorts.</p>
<p>Anna crosses to the window like a stalking tiger. She draws aside his curtains and peers into the alley beyond. Even Cas can see the momentary silhouette of a fleeing figure as Dean is cast into relief under a streetlamp before he darts away around the corner.</p>
<p>Anna sucks in a knife-sharp breath. She whirls on her heel, hair flying over her shoulder. Then her palm smacks across Cas’s face with a resounding crack. Cas’s head whips back on his neck. His face pulses with stinging heat. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for another blow.</p>
<p>It doesn’t come. He can feel Anna’s eyes on him, heavy with judgement and scorn. And it’s not so terrible that Cas has been caught with someone in his bed on the eve of their brother’s death, but it’s the fact that it was a boy.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Cas says. He drags his eyes back to his sister. Anna’s face is pale and stony. “Now you know.”</p>
<p>“How could you?” Anna spits. Cas does not recognize her voice. It is cold. It is spiteful. It sounds like Luca did when he told Dean <em>I will kill you.</em> “How <em>dare</em> you?”</p>
<p>“Anna, listen,” Cas implores her, but he does not know what he’s going to tell her. What he can possibly say to her that will make this situation look less bad than it already looks.</p>
<p>“I will not listen!” Anna tells him, and she spins out of the way of his hand as he reaches for her shoulder. “You are – you are a disgrace!”</p>
<p>“Anna –”</p>
<p>“It is a <em>sin</em>!” Anna interrupts him. She looks as though she cannot stand the sight of him, like he is something low and disgusting. Like she does not even want to breathe the same air as him. “A sin to even think it, Castiel –”</p>
<p>“No!” Cas interrupts her, and the anger in his voice surprises even him. Anna recoils as though he struck her, but she falls silent. Castiel will not listen to this; he will not listen to Anna calling what he shares with Dean a sin. Not when it is the only pure thing Castiel thinks he has ever experienced in his life.</p>
<p><em>You’re my religion</em>, Frederic told Catherine. <em>You’re all I’ve got</em>.</p>
<p>“It is not, Anna. And I know you will not believe me –” he remembers what Dean told him, when he asked him to go away with him, “But there’s nothing wrong with us. There’s something wrong with the world.”</p>
<p>“How can you believe such <em>lies</em>?” Anna whispers. She looks horrified but, worse than that, she looks hurt. “This is blasphemy, Castiel. Can’t you hear yourself? Don’t you realize that you will go to Hell–”</p>
<p>“<em>This</em> is Hell!” Cas interrupts her, and he threads his fingers through his hair like he’s seen Dean do. He pulls hard enough to hurt. “This city around us! The death and the violence and the pain around us, Anna, don’t you see? I have found some semblance of refuge – how can you ask me to give it up?”</p>
<p>Anna shakes her head. Her eyes are red and wet with tears.</p>
<p>“Anna, please,” Cas softens his voice. He takes a step forward. Anna does not step back. “Dean is –”</p>
<p>Castiel immediately knows he made a mistake because up until now Anna thought it was just any boy. Now she knows it was Dean. The same Dean who killed Michael.</p>
<p>“Dean?” she hisses. Her voice is poison. Her face drops two shades whiter. “Dean? You have been fucking Michael’s killer?”</p>
<p>It is, Cas thinks, the first time he has ever heard Anna use such a filthy oath. It is such an incongruent image: an ugly word coming out of his sister’s pretty mouth.</p>
<p>“Dean Winchester, the Hunter?” Anna continues. Cas feels his heart break. He knows: he has lost his sister. He has chosen Dean; Anna is gone from him.</p>
<p>“You do not understand,” Cas fumbles pointlessly. His voice no longer works. There is no way he can defend himself.</p>
<p>“No!” Anna declares. “It is you – you, Castiel, who do not understand!” She flings her hand toward the window, out of which they both watched Dean escape the alley. “A boy like that – that you would let such filth tarnish your bed. That you would allow him to touch you. That you could even stand the sight of him after what he has done to our family!”</p>
<p>“I love him,” Cas says limply.</p>
<p>“Love!” Anna scoffs and tosses her hair again. “A boy who kills cannot love, Castiel! He knows only violence and deceit. He can only hurt you.”</p>
<p>“Michael killed,” Cas says softly.</p>
<p>Anna’s face darkens. “Michael died defending the honor of this family. And now you defile that same honor –”</p>
<p>“Honor?” Castiel demands, anger flaring back to life in his chest, and he is glad of it. Glad of any flame, no matter how small, that might eclipse the monstrous, black pit that threatens to consume him from the inside out as Anna continues to scream at him. “There was no honor in the way Michael lived. And no honor in the way he died. No honor in his game between Angels and Hunters. Their life is one of lies and shadows and betrayal. Did Luca tell you, Anna? Did Luca tell you how Michael stabbed the other boy in the back?”</p>
<p>Anna’s face flushes. She shuts her eyes. For a minute she sways from toe to heel, and Castiel is afraid she’s going to collapse.</p>
<p>“And now you betray them,” Anna says quietly. “Luca and Michael who protected us, provided for us when we were orphans. You spit in their faces like Gabriel did? Michael – you would do this with Michael’s killer when Michael has been like a father to you?”</p>
<p>“Michael has never been my father,” Cas says. His voice is cool; he doesn’t mean to be unfeeling; he barely remembers his father, but he has enough memories to know that Michael has always been a poor replacement.</p>
<p>“You are racing to your death!” Anna shouts at him. Spit flies from her lips. Castiel has seen her angry many times. Anna has a temper as fiery as her hair, Mama used to say. But Castiel has never seen her this angry. “Luca is looking for him! Luca will kill him! And if he finds you with him, he will kill you, too!”</p>
<p>As soon as the words leave her mouth, her face crumples. She collapses to her knees and folds over her thighs, head in her hand. She sobs – once, twice her shoulders heave – and then she pulls in a great, shuddering breath and goes still and silent. She is like Mama, Castiel realizes, so strong. Refusing to let herself fall apart, even on her deathbed, because there was still work to be done. Anna deserves better than Castiel.</p>
<p>Cas is on his knees in front of his sister. He hesitantly lays a hand on her shoulder. She does not shrug him off.</p>
<p>“I have nothing,” Cas says. His throat aches. “I have nothing to convince you with, Anna. All I have is my love. Right or wrong, that is all I have.”</p>
<p>“Mama and Papa are dead,” Anna says into her hands. “Gabriel left. Michael has been killed. And now you will leave? You will leave us too, Castiel?”</p>
<p>It is the last blow. The death blow. Her words sink into his chest as surely as Dean’s knife slid into Michael’s sternum.</p>
<p>“Come with us,” Cas says desperately. “Dean will not mind. His brother, Sam, is coming. Please, Anna – you have never been like them.”</p>
<p>Anna shakes her head. She has quieted, now; her passion is burnt out, leaving a tired, dry husk in its wake. Like after Mama died on the boat, and Castiel struggled to keep both Anna and Alfie afloat until they reached Ellis Island.</p>
<p>Until they were separated from the long line of strangers who did not speak their language and locked away in a small white room with two small beds and one high window. It was like a prison. And they waited there to see if they could stay or if they would be sent back to Italy, where everything that had ever made the country home was now long dead and gone. Waited to see if they would live or die. All the while, Alfie’s cough grew worse; it rattled in his lungs just like it had with Mama before she breathed her last. And Anna looked to Castiel – looked to her big brother to help her, and Castiel did not know what to do.</p>
<p>“I have fought for my small freedoms,” Anna says, and she sounds exhausted. Her face is gray. “Who I dance with. What I wear. These things I will fight for. But not this, Castiel. You have gone too far. And I cannot – I cannot follow you.”</p>
<p>Castiel knew it would be her answer before he even thought to ask the question, but still, her words sting.</p>
<p>“This is your chance,” Cas begs her. It is like he’s fighting the tide. He is digging channels in the sand to stop the water from flowing away from him. “You could go to college. You could do something great with your life, Anna.”</p>
<p>“And leave Alfie?” Anna says. She cocks an eyebrow, and there is accusation in her face. <em>And leave Alfie like you are leaving Alfie?</em></p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Cas hangs his head. It is a pointless and meaningless word. There is no single word nor novel-length sentence that could contain the vastness of Castiel’s guilt, the impossibility of his contrition.</p>
<p>A sharp knock on the front door radiates through the apartment. Anna sits up sharply. She roughly wipes her eyes with her sleeves and stands up. She brushes past Castiel and leaves his bedroom without another word, tugging the string of her dressing gown closed.</p>
<p>Cas has enough presence of mind to grab a bathrobe from the back of his door, to scrub the last dregs of his tears and Dean’s blood from his face, before he follows her into the hall and the apartment’s small, cluttered sitting room.</p>
<p>Anna puts her eye to the peephole to see who’s knocking, and she takes an alarmed step back from the door.</p>
<p>“It’s the police,” she hisses.</p>
<p>Fear closes in around Cas’s heart and he snatches Anna’s wrist before she can move forward and open the door.</p>
<p>“Anna, listen to me,” Cas says, speaking before he can think about it. Fear and need pulse in equal parts along with his heartbeat. “Dean is waiting for me –” Anna’s face transforms into an ugly snarl at the sound of Dean’s name, but Cas ignores it. “<em>Please</em>. I am begging you, Anna. You must go to him. Tell him I’m coming. Tell him he has to wait for me.”</p>
<p>Castiel cannot stand it. He cannot bear the thought of Dean waiting for Cas, and Cas not showing up. He cannot bear the thought of Dean thinking Cas has changed his mind.</p>
<p>“<em>Per favore, sorella mia,</em>” Cas begs her.</p>
<p>The policeman on the other side of the door knocks again, two loud, impatient thumps like he’s switched over from his knuckles to his whole fist.</p>
<p>Anna’s face doesn’t soften. But her eyes droop with something like resignation. “Where is he?” she asks.</p>
<p>Relief blooms in Castiel’s gut. “Singer’s Auto. It’s just past the playground.”</p>
<p>“I’ve seen it,” Anna says, voice clipped. And she immediately turns her back on Cas. This is it, Castiel realizes, and he has to suddenly bite his lip against the influx of emotion. This might be the last time he ever sees her.</p>
<p>Anna swings open the door, revealing two police officers on the other side of their threshold, looking shockingly out of place with their bulky, shiny uniforms in the shabby hallway. Cas sees that the apartment door across the hallway is edged open an inch, giving space for a curious eye.</p>
<p>“You the Novas?” the policeman in the front asks in a clipped, business-like voice. He is frowning and wearing the type of hat Cas has seen private eyes in movies wear, like Humphrey Bogart in <em>The Big Sleep</em>.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Anna says coolly.</p>
<p>“We don’t mean to disturb you,” the officer in the back says, tall with narrowed, careful eyes. “Guess you’re plenty disturbed already.”</p>
<p>“I’m Lieutenant Campbell,” the first man says. “This is Officer Deacon.” The officer nods and tips his cap.</p>
<p>“Yes, well, you must excuse us,” Anna continues. “We have no time to chat.”</p>
<p>“We won’t be a minute,” Campbell says with a disquieting grin, already forcing his way past Anna. Deacon follows, bobbing apologetically first at Anna, then at Cas.</p>
<p>“You’re Anna, right?” Deacon says, nodding. “And you’re Gabriel?”</p>
<p>“Gabriel left a year ago.” Anna’s voice is ice. And Cas tries not to think about how that’s how she will talk about Castiel from now on. “This is Castiel.”</p>
<p>Deacon nods. He pulls out a little pad of paper and a pen from his pocket. “And there’s two more of ya, right? An older one and a younger one.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Anna says. “Our little brother, Alfonzo, is downstairs with our Aunt. Excuse me, but I must go to him.”</p>
<p>“Hold on,” Campbell says, frowning, blocking Anna with an arm. And Anna bristles, but Campbell doesn't back down. “We got a couple questions.”</p>
<p>“I can answer your questions,” Castiel draws himself to his full height. He knows he looks absurd. He is wearing only a bathrobe and his underwear. He tries to inject as much authority as possible into his voice, but he is unused to being the man of the house. “Anna can leave.”</p>
<p>Campbell gives Anna a long, sweeping look from her feet to her face, the kind of look that makes Cas want to take the man by the throat. Finally, he jerks his chin toward the door. “Get out.”</p>
<p>Anna ducks under Campbell’s arm before he can lift it. She races down the hallway to the stairs at the end. Cas hears the patter of her footsteps down the steps, passed the floor below them, but he doesn’t think either policeman notices; they’re both too interested in Castiel.</p>
<p>“Well?” Campbell says. “You gonna invite us in, Cas?”</p>
<p>“My name is Castiel,” Cas answers stiffly. “Will this take long?”</p>
<p>“Not long,” Deacon says at the same time Campbell bites, “Long as it has to, Caz<em>teel</em>.”</p>
<p>Castiel swallows. His throat is very dry. He gestures for the men to come in and take a seat on the sofa. Cas suddenly feels that their apartment is very dirty; there are cracks in the ceiling and faded holes in the carpet. It smells vaguely like mildew and the burnt residue on the stove. Cas takes a seat in an armchair across from them; he tries to look as dignified as possible in his robe.</p>
<p>“Alright, kid,” Campbell says. “I’m gonna cut right to the chase. We know you know your brother Michael’s dead.”</p>
<p>Cas tries to hide his flinch, but it is hard, hearing it so baldly put. “Our brother Luca told us.”</p>
<p>“Luca, huh?” Deacon says. “He the older one?”</p>
<p>“Older than me, yes,” Cas replies.</p>
<p>“Where is he now?” Campbell asks. He takes off his hat and puts it in his lap.</p>
<p>“I do not know,” Cas says. “He left after he told us.”</p>
<p>“And how’d he know in the first place, huh?” Campbell demands. “Your brother was found skewered under the parkway with another o’ you sewer rats. The other’d been stabbed in the back, and your brother in the chest, so we’re missing a piece of the puzzle, see? Cause they couldn’t have killed each other.”</p>
<p>“I do not understand why you’re telling me this,” Cas says. He wonders if the men can see the fear in his eyes. If they can somehow reach inside his head and pluck apart the memory of Dean plunging his knife into Michael’s heart.</p>
<p>“You don’t, huh, smart guy?” Campbell leans forward, elbows on his knees, and dangles his hat from his fingers. “Cause the way we figure it, see, is that there was someone else around that stabbed your brother. Or maybe who saw who dunnit.”</p>
<p>Cas wets his lips. He tells himself not to look away from Campbell, but it’s hard. “And you think Luca knows something?”</p>
<p>“We think somebody knows something,” Deacon cuts in.</p>
<p>“For instance,” Campbell says. “We know that the other rat got killed happened to be Benny Lafitte. And we know that Benny happens to be a best friend o’ one Dean Winchester. And it just so happens that good ole’ Deano’s got beef a mile high with that brother of yours.”</p>
<p>Dean’s name sends a crackle like a lightning bolt down Castiel’s spine. He closes his fist tight at his side and bites his fingernails hard into his palm. “I did not know this,” Cas lies. He lies like his brothers have learned to lie, like Cas has never had to lie before. “I work in my Uncle Donatello’s store with my sister Anna and brother Alfonzo. I do not know about what my older brothers are involved in.”</p>
<p>“Sure, kid,” Campbell says. “So, you don’t mind if I take a look around? Make sure ole’ Luca ain’t hanging around – like you say he ain’t.”</p>
<p>“I have nothing to hide,” Cas says stiffly. Campbell stands, swinging his hat at his side. He disappears into the apartment behind Cas. Cas’s throat is tight. He swallows in an effort to relax his taut muscles. Deacon is shuffling his feet, clearly ill at ease with his partner’s behavior but unable to find the right words to say.</p>
<p>Cas listens to Campbell make his way through the apartment: opening bedroom and closet doors, ruffling aside the shower curtain. Cas thinks about his own bedroom; he wonders if Campbell will notice Cas’s bed or the bloody clothes Cas left on the floor, and he stifles a cold flare of panic.</p>
<p>“Deacon, let’s clear out.” Campbell is back. Castiel thinks he catches a slight glimmer of disappointment in the man’s steely eyes; whatever he came for, Castiel has not given it to him. Castiel fights the desire to melt in relief.</p>
<p>They both go back to the door. Campbell leaves with a spasm of his head that might have been a nod. Deacon pauses before following. He looks uncomfortable, and he mumbles, “Condolences,” before he, too, leaves.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Act Two: Scene Four, A Message</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW for the threat of sexual violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ellen can threaten to handcuff Jo to the bar if she even thinks about leaving the Roadhouse, but she can’t do anything to Sam, even if she does her best to intimidate him. So, as soon as Ellen’s done mother-henning about his broken nose, Sam’s out of the Roadhouse like a shot.</p>
<p>Sam knows the guys will have checked Dean’s regular haunts: the dives, the alleys, the empty lots, but only Sam knows to look at Bobby’s garage. The rest of the Hunters think the garage was just where Dean worked. Only Sam – and Benny, but Sam tries not to think about Benny – knew the garage was more than that.</p>
<p>A safe haven, a port in the storm of their lives for as long as Sam can remember; Bobby’s been more of a father to both of them long before John Winchester died. And Sam knows that Dean cut his teeth on the inside of an engine. Hell, sometimes Dean would drag Sam to spend the night in Bobby’s apartment over the shop when things got really bad at their own apartment. Even though Dean, himself, never stayed a full night. He always went back to check on Dad.</p>
<p>Sam sprints as fast as his pounding head and uneasy stomach can handle. He knows it doesn’t make sense – because Dean didn’t run toward the garage when he left Sam in that alley; he ran away from it – but Sam tells himself that that’s where Dean has to be, now. That maybe Dean left Sam in that alley to go to Bobby for cash. That everything’s going to be okay. Sam’ll find Dean, and then they’ll get the hell out.</p>
<p>Sam skids to a stop on the sidewalk outside Singer’s Auto. The large garage doors are shuddered closed and locked for the night, but Sam sees pale lamplight in the windows above, so that means Bobby’s awake despite the hour.</p>
<p>Sam trips up the narrow, crumbling stairs that lead to the small door on the side of the building. It opens into a rickety flight of stairs that leads to the door of Bobby’s apartment.</p>
<p>Sam pounds his fists against the door. “Bobby?” he yells. “Bobby, open up!” Almost immediately, the sound of Bobby’s stumping, uneven gait thunders down the stairs inside.</p>
<p>“Keep your fucking head on!” Bobby roars on the other side. Three locks slide and click out of place, and the door swings open. Bobby’s standing there, red-faced and heaving for breath. He must have left his cane upstairs, because he’s clutching the banister hard. And he’s not wearing his trucker’s cap – the sight is so unexpected that Sam nearly doesn’t recognize him with the greasy, threadbare strands of hair combed across the top of his scalp.</p>
<p>“Christ almighty, Sam,” Bobby growls. “It’s three o’clock in the morning!”</p>
<p>“Sammy?” And that’s Dean’s voice – Sam’s heart jumps into his throat, and he shoves past Bobby in the doorway without a word. He pelts up the stairs, Bobby’s shout of surprise and irritation echoing behind him.</p>
<p>“Dean –” Sam crashes through the door. And there’s Dean. Half out of his perch on one of Bobby’s chairs. He still looks like a fucking mess – his bruising’s worse in the light – but he’s less of a mess then he was before. Bobby’s got a first aid kit spread open on the table, clearly in the middle of triage, and at least Dean isn’t pumped full of bullet holes behind some dumpster. Sam is so relieved, he nearly collapses where he stands.</p>
<p>“Sam!” Dean barks. “The fuck aren’t you waiting at Turner’s?”</p>
<p>“It’s been way longer than a fucking hour, Dean!” Sam yells. He wants to hug his brother and never let go. But Dean would hate that, so Sam shouts, instead.</p>
<p>“What happened to your face?” Dean asks sharply. He’s fully on his feet and rushing Sam in a second.</p>
<p>Sam ducks out of the way. “I’m <em>fine</em>,” Sam says stubbornly, going for devil-may-care but landing somewhere around whining.</p>
<p>Bobby clumps back up the stairs. He shoulders open the door and takes a second to catch his breath. Sure enough, his cane is abandoned by the chair across from Dean’s.</p>
<p>“The hell you idjits into now?” Bobby growls, irritation evident, but no real heat in his voice. Bobby’s tough as beef jerky on the outside, but Sam knows on the inside he’s really a big ole’ sap.</p>
<p>“I mean it, Sam,” Dean ignores Bobby completely. “Who the fuck smashed your nose in with a brick?”</p>
<p>Sam doesn’t answer. There are way more important things to talk about. “Luca’s looking for you,” Sam says in a rush. Dean’s eyebrows skyrocket, but he doesn’t look quite surprised, it’s more skepticism. “He’s got a gun, and he’s looking for you.”</p>
<p>“Luca do this to you?” Dean says, waving at Sam’s broken nose, which, now that the pulsing need of finding Dean has been satiated, allows itself to be felt again. And Sam fucking <em>feels</em> it.</p>
<p>“Ellen patched me up,” Sam says dismissively. “Point is, we gotta get out of here <em>now</em>. Before Luca figures out where you are.”</p>
<p>Sam isn’t sure which part of that sentence made Dean uncomfortable, but Dean suddenly flushes red. “M not afraid of Luca,” he mutters under his breath.</p>
<p>“I didn’t say you were!” Sam says. “Can we just go?” And, shit, he never did get around to the apartment. He doesn’t want to leave all their stuff behind, but, right now, getting the hell out of Dodge is more important than a couple of old records, even if he’s sure Dean will disagree.</p>
<p>Bobby lets out an exasperated huff behind them. “Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna go back to bed,” he says.</p>
<p>“Sorry, Bobby,” Dean says with a wince. “We’ll be out of your hair in a sec. I swear.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Like right <em>now</em>?” He makes to grab Dean’s wrist and tug him back out the door, but Dean swings his hand out of the way.</p>
<p>“Sammy, just wait a Goddamn second, okay?” Dean blusters. His face is even redder than it was before.</p>
<p>“Wait for what, Dean?” Sam blurts out. “You’re the one who wanted to leave in the first place –”</p>
<p>“I know, okay?” Dean lets out a hard breath. “Just – we gotta wait for just a few more minutes. We gotta –”</p>
<p>“We gotta what, Dean?” Sam yells.</p>
<p>“Son of a bitch,” Dean hisses between his teeth, and then he obviously steels himself to say something that Sam isn’t going to like; his face crinkles in the exact same way it’s always done before telling Sam something unpleasant. “We gotta wait for someone else, okay? They – they’re coming here. We ain’t going alone, just us two.”</p>
<p>Silence hangs there. Even Bobby has stopped his huffing and puffing. Sam thinks at first that Bobby is staring at Dean – because Sam is staring at Dean – Dean is the one they should be staring at, right now; but then he feels the old man’s eyes on the back of his own head, kind of like he’s waiting for Sam to explode, or something.</p>
<p>“We’re bringing someone else?” someone asks. Sam realizes it’s his own voice.</p>
<p>“I – I can’t…” Dean stammers. He looks desperate. A little unhinged, maybe. Sam wonders just how many times Luca kicked him in the head. “I promised, Sammy. I can’t just leave Cas behind.”</p>
<p>“Cas…Cassie?” Sam says incomprehensibly. “You hooked up with Cassie a few times when you were fifteen, Dean.”</p>
<p>Dean doesn’t say anything. He just swallows. He won’t quite meet Sam’s eye.</p>
<p>“Well,” Bobby breaks the silence deliberately. “She’s gotta be one helluva girl if she’s got her claws into you, boy.”</p>
<p>But Dean doesn’t smirk or crack a lewd joke or do anything like Dean is supposed to do. Instead, Dean looks a little bit like he’s going to cry.</p>
<p>“Okay, then,” Sam says slowly. Dean turns his eyes on Sam, but Sam’s already swinging back toward the door. He keeps his voice deliberately level. “We gotta wait for her, then I’d better find Vic or someone and let ‘em know you’re okay. They’re probably worried.”</p>
<p>“Sammy, wait –” Dean says.</p>
<p>Sam doesn’t wait. Bobby is still looking at him, but Sam doesn’t want to look back; he doesn’t want to read whatever understanding or disappointment might be in the older man’s eyes.</p>
<p>“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Sam continues.</p>
<p>Dean leaps forward. His hand closes around Sam’s wrist. “I’m not letting you back out there, Sam,” he growls low and urgent. Finally, he looks scared. Sam realizes for maybe the first time in his life that Dean is just as scared shitless as Sam is, himself.</p>
<p>“You don’t <em>let</em> me do anything!” Sam wrenches his arm free and Dean totters backward, a look of shocked hurt crossing his face so quickly Sam wonders if he imagined it. But Sam doesn’t care. Sam doesn’t care if Dean thinks Sam as good as hit him. Sam isn’t letting Dean boss him around anymore. Because Dean is – Dean is waiting for some fucking <em>girl</em>. And this fucking girl is maybe going to be responsible for getting Dean hurt if they can’t get out in time.</p>
<p>Sam doesn’t stick around to see whether or not Dean was going to pull himself together in time to try to stop him again. He darts by Bobby and back down the stairs. He flings himself out into the night air. And why does it always have to be so Goddamn hot and <em>sticky</em>? </p>
<p>He and Dean used to sleep on the fire escape most nights when it was this hot. But he doesn’t want to think about back then. He doesn’t want to think about Dean hauling their bedsheets and quilt onto the rickety scaffolding, talking soothingly about <em>it’s just like camping, Sammy. Just imagine it’s like we’re out in the middle of the woods. Picking out constellations and shit.</em> </p>
<p>Sam realizes he’s running; there’s a stitch in his side, and his head throbs. He forces himself to slow down and take a couple deep breaths. He’s nearly at the playground, and he can hear voices up ahead. He quiets his breathing and listens hard.</p>
<p>“You see him, Vic?” It’s Christian’s voice.</p>
<p>Victor answers him, “He ain’t at the park.”</p>
<p>There are a smattering of footsteps and Christian calls in surprise, “You girls shouldn’t be here.” At the same time Victor says, “He wasn’t at your place, Lise?”</p>
<p>“No,” Lisa replies. “We haven’t seen him. But Charlie and I – we can help.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Charlie agrees readily.</p>
<p>Sam’s close enough that someone’s caught the sound of his footsteps in the dark.</p>
<p>“Who’s that?” Christian says sharply.</p>
<p>Sam steps forward. Christian, Victor, Lisa, and Charlie are bundled by the chain-link fence that hems in the playground. They look momentarily frightened before Sam steps under the weak light of a streetlamp, and he remembers abruptly that Luca’s sneaking around somewhere with a gun.</p>
<p>“It’s Sam,” Sam tells them.</p>
<p>“You seen your brother, Sam?” Victor asks.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Sam replies. “He’s safe.”</p>
<p>The group makes a collective sound of relief.</p>
<p>“Where is he?” Christian says.</p>
<p>Sam hesitates. Sam trusts them. He does. They’re Hunters. But he doesn’t trust them with Dean; he doesn’t trust anyone with Dean, right now.</p>
<p>“He’s safe,” Sam repeats himself. No one has time to question him before there’s another clatter of footsteps, this time from behind them. They turn as one; everyone’s jumpy and alarmed; Sam really hopes that no one else has picked up a gun. They don’t need any itchy trigger fingers right now.</p>
<p>“Howdy fellas,” Ash announces his presence.</p>
<p>Chuck is with him, too. He calls, “Anyone found our man?”</p>
<p>“Sam did,” Victor replies. “Said he’s keeping a low profile.”</p>
<p>“Hallelujah,” Ash crows.</p>
<p>“That’s good,” Chuck adds rationally. “If the greasers don’t find him, the cops will. We passed a couple squad cars around. Must ‘a found the bodies.”</p>
<p>A chill runs down Sam’s spine at the word <em>bodies.</em></p>
<p>“It’s true then?” Charlie asks. “Benny –”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Victor says sadly.</p>
<p>“Lousy, stinking, <em>bastard</em>,” Christian explodes suddenly and smashes his fist into the fence. The chain-links rattle and distort oddly in the otherwise silent street. “Stabbed him in the fucking back.”</p>
<p>“<em>Shut up</em>,” Victor hisses, and Christian turns, face contorted in anger, but Victor has his hand raised and he’s listening hard. Christian gets the point; so do the rest of the gang.</p>
<p>Sam listens to the night air. Somewhere in the distance, a baby is wailing, but closer, he hears it: more footsteps. Cautious and soft, like someone’s doing their best to sneak up on them.</p>
<p>“Who’s there?” Christian demands, the idiot – and Victor hisses something to him about not wanting to scare whoever it is away – but Christian’s already got a blade drawn, and he seems to be edging inch by inch outside of Victor’s control.</p>
<p>“W-wait,” a tremulous voice sounds from the darkness. It’s a girl; Sam sees Ash and Chuck exchange startled looks. “Don’t – it’s Anna. Anna Nova.”</p>
<p>The name shocks the group into a silence so cold and still it’s like a block of ice. Anna emerges into a streetlamp’s ring of light. She looks like she ran out of the door as soon as she was roused from bed: she’s wearing a silky, flowy blue robe. She remembered to put on shoes, but just barely. She’s wearing basketball shoes that probably belong to one of her brothers: they’re at least two sizes too big for her.</p>
<p>It’s Christian who breaks the silence first: “What the fuck are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“I have to –” Anna takes another small step forward. Sam looks at her pale, nearly gray skin, and limp red hair and he realizes she looks utterly terrified. Her shaking hands are gripped into tight fists at her side. “I would like to speak to Dean Winchester.”</p>
<p>Some of the ice cube hanging over their heads chips off and lands in Sam’s stomach. “Like hell you would.”</p>
<p>Anna’s eyes dart to Sam before speeding restlessly to the rest of their faces, clearly aware that she is surrounded and trying to analyze who is the biggest threat. Her eyes linger uneasily on Christian when she says, “I have something I need to tell him.”</p>
<p>“Believe you me,” Victor cuts in. “We already passed along your little <em>message</em> to Dean.”</p>
<p>Anna shakes her head. She works her mouth soundlessly for a minute, like she’s swallowing down fear. “You do not understand.”</p>
<p>“Oh, we understand just fine, <em>signora</em>,” Christian spits. He takes a step forward; Anna shuffles backward in alarm. She sees that Christian has his knife drawn and her eyes latch onto it. “You wanna tell him your brother Luca’s looking for him – well you better tell Luca to watch his back if you don’t want two dead brothers in one night.”</p>
<p>Anna’s face goes from white to red. Her eyes flash with anger behind her fear. And something about the way she straightens her shoulders reminds Sam of Dean when he’s facing down a fight.</p>
<p>“I have not come for <em>you</em>,” Anna tells Christian. She spits out the <em>you</em> as if she wants to replace it with something filthy. She squares her jaw and takes a step forward, obviously aiming to walk between them. Without a word, the Hunters close in around her.</p>
<p>“Where you think you going, <em>Bellissima</em>?” Ash asks, leering at her.</p>
<p>“Will you let me pass?” Anna says stiffly.</p>
<p>“If you have a message for Dean, then you can tell us,” Lisa says fiercely. Sam feels a flare of anger on Lisa’s behalf, not directed at Anna, but directed at Dean – because the girl he’s waiting for is obviously not Lisa, and Lisa doesn’t know a thing about it.</p>
<p>“I need to speak to Dean Winchester, not you,” Anna spits.</p>
<p>“I’m his brother,” Sam steps forward. “You got something to say, tell me.”</p>
<p>Anna pauses. Her eyes sweep across Sam’s face. She has to crane her neck because Sam is half a foot, at least, taller than her. “You are Sam?” she says carefully. And her voice makes Sam’s skin prickle in gooseflesh, because it’s got the same inflexion as Luca’s did when he pinned him to the pavement and told him <em>Winchester filth. Tell your coward brother I say ciao</em>.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m Sam,” Sam sticks out his jaw and lifts his chin.</p>
<p>Anna directs her words to Sam. Her eyes are strangely level and piercing; they are very blue, and Sam finds himself surprised that Italian’s could have blue eyes; he always thought they were all dark.</p>
<p>“I need to speak to your brother, Sam,” Anna tells him in a remarkably steady voice. “I need to go to Singer’s Auto.”</p>
<p>Sam snaps like a slingshot. He lunges for Anna; her eyes open wide in horror, but Sam doesn’t think as he crowds her against the fence; the chains jangle and clink as he pins her there. She is light as a feather and brittle under his hands; if he put his hands around her throat and squeezed, he’d crack her neck in a second.</p>
<p>“How the fuck do you know about the garage?” Sam hisses into her face. The same alien, frightening rage that poured through Sam’s veins when he threatened Christian in the Roadhouse is tumbling through him now.</p>
<p>“L-let me go,” Anna sputters. Sam’s forearm is pressing against Anna’s throat; her lips gape soundlessly as she struggles for breath.</p>
<p>“Sam…” Victor warns, but it’s too late. Sam isn’t listening to anyone anymore. The screaming in his head is too loud: <em>Luca knows where Dean is. Luca knows about the garage.</em> </p>
<p>“Attaboy, Sammy,” Christian says approvingly as Chuck and Ash cackle meanly behind him. Only Lisa and Charlie are silent, both staring uncomfortably at Sam as he pins a girl half his size to a fence.</p>
<p>It suddenly occurs to Sam what he’s doing, how Dean always insisted that men don’t hurt girls, no matter who the bitch is. And Sam drops Anna like she burned him. Anna wilts against the fence; she gasps for air. She looks pale and sick. Sam totters two steps back. He looks at his hands and he doesn’t understand. There’s something wrong with him.</p>
<p>“L-listen,” Anna stammers. “I am not here – I am here to <em>help</em>.”</p>
<p>“No, you listen,” Christian takes Sam’s place, looming above Anna and sneering. “We don’t cut deals with Angel whores.” Chuck and Ash nod along with Christian, even Victor looks approving, although he remains somber and watchful.</p>
<p>Anna sucks in a sharp breath. “Do not –”</p>
<p>“Ginzo slut,” Christian says. Anna’s arm comes up to push Christian away, but he snatches her wrist.</p>
<p>“Don’t touch me –” Anna spits.</p>
<p>Sam watches in stunned, sickening silence as Christian takes Anna’s waist with his other hand, pressing into her stomach with his thumb.</p>
<p>“What?” Christian says. “You put out for your brothers, but not for me?” No one moves to stop him – it’s like they’ve all been sucked into some kind of time warp; Sam can’t move. He can’t speak. Christian’s fingers creep toward the folds of Anna’s robe.</p>
<p>“Stop,” Anna whimpers. All trace of anger is gone from her face; all that’s left is blank terror. There are tears swimming in her eyes.</p>
<p>“Christian –” it’s Charlie, and her voice is like a whip. “Let her go.”</p>
<p>Christian tosses a look over his shoulder and scoffs at Charlie, “You stay out of this, fucking dyke!” Charlie’s face flushes. Her eyes swim with unshed tears.</p>
<p>“Charlie’s right,” Lisa pipes up, voice high-pitched with fear. “Leave her alone.”</p>
<p>Christian snarls, but he must loosen his grip on Anna, because she stumbles away from him. She’s breathing hard, and she straightens her robe with shaking fingers.</p>
<p>“I have a message for your Hunter <em>friend</em>,” Anna gasps. She fixes her eyes on them, and her gaze is full of livid, teeming hatred. “You tell Dean that Castiel is not coming. You tell him that Luca found out about them – and he shot him! You tell him that Castiel is dead!”</p>
<p>Anna whips around and sprints down the sidewalk the way she came.</p>
<p>“Fucking whore!” Christian bellows after her.</p>
<p>But Sam barely hears him. Castiel. Castiel Nova. Castiel – Cas. Sickening understanding thuds into Sam’s belly. <em>Castiel is dead. Tell Dean that Castiel is not coming. Because Castiel is dead.</em></p>
<p>Ash and Chuck are laughing, clearly poking fun at Anna’s message, because none of them knows what it means. Sam’s been set adrift. Nothing makes sense. Dean – Dean and Castiel – but Castiel is a <em>boy</em> –</p>
<p>“You know what she meant by that?” Victor is the only one who’s noticed Sam’s stunned silence in the crowd of guffawing and teasing.</p>
<p>“No,” Sam says faintly. “Listen…I gotta.” Sam has to get out. He has to get his brother and get out. “I gotta get back to Dean.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Victor says. He nods and places a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam suddenly remembers that, although Benny was Dean’s best friend, Victor’s always kind a’ been there, too. “You tell that knucklehead brother of yours to keep his nose clean.”</p>
<p>“Sure, Vic,” Sam breathes. Then Sam tears away. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone else. He doesn’t really want to look at the others, not when he thinks about what they almost let Christian do to Anna. Lisa looks like she’s trying to catch his eye, but Sam looks stubbornly away. With a pang, Sam remembers Ruby, but he pushes her away, too. And then he races back into the dark, toward Dean.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Act Two: Scene Five, Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another f-slur in this chapter and homophobic violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Ow, Bobby! Fuck!” Dean says on a gasp as his broken ribs stutter with hot, nauseating pain under Bobby’s prodding fingers.</p><p>“Watch your language, boy,” Bobby barks. His hands are leather-like with callouses, but his fingers are gentle as they run up and down the xylophone of Dean’s chest, checking for the movement of a displaced rib, swelling, or hard spots that would indicate an internal bleed.</p><p>“Dammit!” Dean hisses as Bobby finds a particularly tender spot. Dean squirms on his chair and tries to push Bobby’s hands away, but Bobby just swats him back.</p><p>There’s a frown in Bobby’s eyes, and his eyebrows furrow. But he just <em>tsks</em>, under his breath and finally pulls his hands away from Dean’s chest, rolling his shirt back down over his bruised torso.</p><p>“Just cracked,” Bobby pronounces. “Same three got broke four months ago.”</p><p>Bobby’s got his old med kit bisected on his table, full of surplus, circa 1940 army supplies. Next to the kit is Bobby’s SAA. Bobby’d answered the door with it drawn, and he’s kept it on hand ever since Dean told him what happened. </p><p>“Could ‘a told you that,” Dean grumbles, not quite loud enough to provoke a response. Anyway, Bobby’s already getting back to his feet with a grunt. He snatches his cane and stomps out of sight into the kitchen. Bobby took a piece of shrapnel to his knee in the Tunisia Campaign back in 1943 and has walked with a limp ever since, getting more pronounced as the years tick by.</p><p>“So, you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?” Bobby calls from the kitchen. Dean hears the momentary hum of the freezer as Bobby opens the door and fishes something out.</p><p>“You don’t gotta worry, Bobby,” Dean insists. “Sam and me are getting out. And if anyone comes around asking questions, you can tell ‘em truthful that you don’t know where we went.”</p><p>“I’ll tell ‘em to stick it where the sun don’t shine,” Bobby remarks. He comes back into the room, juggling a block of Birds Eye frozen peas. “Put this on your eye,” Bobby tosses it to Dean, and Dean catches it. “Tired at looking at your ugly mug.”</p><p>“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says quietly. He presses the icy block to his eye, flinching a little at first contact but relaxing as the coolness seeps into the heat and swelling of his bruised face.</p><p>“But that ain’t what I mean,” Bobby continues, with a look that’s half-stern and half-concerned. “What’s this about a girl?”</p><p>Dean’s stomach stirs with unease. Because Sammy and Bobby can only go so long thinking Cas is really a girl before Cas actually shows up and shatters the illusion.</p><p>If Cas actually shows up.</p><p>The thought slinks like venom into Dean’s belly. Because Cas might have come to his senses, might have rightfully decided Dean was worth too much trouble, and might decide to just stay home. It’s already been a little while – more than enough time for Cas to get his stuff and follow Dean to the garage – Cas should be there, by now.</p><p>Unless the cops found him. Or Luca.</p><p>Dean shuts his eyes at the horrifying memory of Lieutenant Campbell’s boots slamming again and again into his chest until his ribs and clavicle shattered under the impact, and, unbidden, Cas’s bruised and bloodied face swims to the forefront of Dean’s mind.</p><p>“I may be the town drunk, but I ain’t the village idjit,” Bobby huffs, making his mustache twitch under his nose. “Sam didn’t know who the hell you were talking about. And you don’t keep secrets from Sam unless it’s real important.”</p><p>“Bobby…” Dean starts, but he can’t. He fucking can’t. John Winchester is turning over in his grave at the idea of his oldest son having sex with a boy, and Dean can’t bear the thought of disappointing his surrogate father in the same way. It’s just gonna have to be a secret. He’ll come up with some excuse when Cas eventually gets there.</p><p>“She pregnant?” Bobby guesses.</p><p>“What?” Dean blurts out. “No…no, I swear, it ain’t like that, Bobby.” He twitches under Bobby’s unforgiving, steady gaze. “It ain’t, ah…fuck, Bobby.” Dean lets out an exasperated breath that only serves to painfully scrape past his broken ribs.</p><p>Dean hears the street door open and close, and he shoves himself to his feet, listening hard for a hint of who it might be.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>That’s Sammy’s voice, and Dean’s torn between being relieved his little brother got back from the Hunters in time to interrupt an uncomfortable conversation with Bobby and disappointed that it’s still not Cas.</p><p>“Up here, Sammy,” Dean says. He walks across Bobby’s creaky, sunken floor to open the door to the stairs.</p><p>Sam’s standing by the street door. Dean can’t see his face in the shadows. It takes Sam a minute to start climbing up the stairs, and, when he does, his footsteps are strangely sluggish.</p><p>“You hurt?” Dean asks, worry prickling at the back of his skull.</p><p>“I’m okay, Dean,” Sam says. His voice is also strangely slow, like he has to carefully untangle each word in his head before he says it.</p><p>Dean steps back to let Sam through the second door. Sam just stands there for a second, staring anywhere but Dean. Staring at the corners of Bobby’s apartment that are spread with cobwebs, at the rickety table and chairs, at the sofa with the springs falling out of the shredded bottom.</p><p>“What the hell is with you?” Dean asks, because, sure, Sam left the apartment like a prissy little bitch, but he should have cooled off by now.</p><p>“Dean…” Sam pauses. He licks his lips. He’s looking toward Dean, now, but not <em>at</em> him. He won’t meet his gaze. “Luca, ah…he knows where you are.”</p><p>“What?” Dean says, and he immediately thinks about Cas. He immediately thinks about Cas being late. About Luca intercepting Cas and somehow knowing about the two of them and beating the location out of Cas. “How do you know, Sam?” Dean steps up to Sam, crowds him into the door behind him, and distantly registers that his little brother might even be an inch or two taller than Dean now.</p><p>Sam swallows. His throat bobs. He looks a little to the left of Dean’s eyes, past his ear and into the room behind him.</p><p>“Anna,” Sam’s voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. “Anna Nova told us. She said she had a message for you.”</p><p>Dean is shaking, and he can’t help it. His pulse echoes in his ears. He’s going to be sick. Oh God, he’s going to be sick. “What message, Sammy.” He clutches Sam’s shoulders. Shakes him when Sam still won’t fucking look at him. “Dammit, Sam, what message?”</p><p>“Easy, Dean!” Bobby barks behind him, but Dean barely hears him.</p><p>“She said –” Sam swallows again. Like he’s moving in slow-motion, his eyes drift from the side of Dean’s face to his eyes. Dean finally notices that his little brother’s eyes are wet. Sammy’s crying, he realizes. Sammy shouldn’t be crying. If Sammy’s crying, that means Dean’s messed up. “She said that Luca…knows about you and Cas-Castiel.” Sam trips over the words. He heaves a deep breath. “She said Luca killed him.”</p><p><em>Luca killed him</em>. The words echo inside Dean’s head for a minute without any meaning. His hands relax their hold on Sammy’s shoulders, but his little brother doesn’t move. Now that he’s finally meeting Dean’s eye, he seems incapable of looking away.</p><p><em>Luca killed him</em>. Blue eyes. Soft hands. Gentle lips. Dancing in the alley. Climbing up the fire escape. Lips on lips. Miles of warm skin, damp with sweat. Holding hands at the altar. Talking. Just fucking talking like they’d known each other for years. Like no one’s ever just listened to Dean talk before.</p><p><em>Luca killed him</em>. Michael’s blood on Dean’s hand, and the knife slid so easily through his chest. Just a little resistance at first as the blade punched through muscle, sinew, bone, and it stuck there in his body, leaking blood, and his eyes lost sight. And Michael’s head in Cas’s lap. And Cas’s eyes leaching the soul from Dean’s body. And <em>Luca killed him</em> – Luca killed him – Luca killed him.</p><p>“Pull yourself together, Winchester!” Bobby commands. And it’s an order. Dean follows orders. <em>Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir, I did not kiss that boy, sir. No, sir, I am not a faggot, sir. No, sir. No, sir. No, sir.</em> But he’s shaking. He’s shaking, and he can’t pull himself together, even for Bobby, who’s never hit Dean before in his life, but he’s got a hand raised like he’s ready to slap Dean across the face.</p><p>“Dean,” Sammy tugs at his wrist. Sammy sounds like a little boy again. “Dean, who the hell was he? Why does he matter? Dean…fucking listen to me!”</p><p><em>Luca killed him</em>.</p><p>Lying, bleeding on the pavement. And Campbell’s toe rams into Dean’s stomach, and Dean coughs out a strangled cry of agony, blood dripping from his lips. Campbell kicks him again. Bone cracks, sharp as a gunshot, under the impact of his boot.</p><p><em>I’ll teach you</em>, Campbell growled. <em>I’ll teach you, fucking queer</em>.</p><p>And maybe that’s how Castiel died. That’s how Luca killed him. Stomped on Cas’s face. Or maybe he shot him. Maybe he got blood all over Castiel’s bedroom floor. The same floor where only moments before he and Cas held each other.</p><p>And tonight. Tonight was when it was supposed to change. Tonight was when the world started looking like somewhere Dean could actually live in. And now it was just a place to die in.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, boy, sit down!” Bobby snaps in alarm and snags Dean’s wrist. Tries to drag Dean back into a chair. But Dean tugs away from him. It’s like the world around him is just a dream. Nothing matters. None of this is real.</p><p><em>Luca killed him</em>.</p><p>“Dean!” That’s Sammy’s voice. And Sammy’s scared. Sammy’s calling for his big brother. Sammy’s grasping at Dean’s arms. “Dean, stop! Where the fuck are you going? Stop!”</p><p>Dean lurches to a stop in the middle of the narrow staircase, and Sam nearly pitches backward. He pinwheels his arms, and Dean’s hand shoots out to grab his little brother’s collar, pulling him steady.</p><p>Bobby yells behind them, “Get your asses back here!”</p><p>“Don’t follow me,” Dean tells Sam. He’s a couple inches taller than Sam again because Sam’s standing on the step below him. “Don’t fucking follow me, Sammy.”</p><p>“Dean,” Sam whispers. His face is sickly pale. He runs his tongue over his lips. “What the fuck are you going to do, Dean?”</p><p>Dean doesn’t answer Sam. He pushes Sam against the wall, and shoves past him. Sam’s mouth gapes.</p><p>“Dean!” He yells. “Fucking stop – you don’t even have a fucking weapon, Dean!”</p><p>Dean keeps going, building momentum. He takes the last few steps at a run.</p><p>“Shit!” Sam yells behind him before he darts back the way he came and is lost inside Bobby’s apartment.</p><p>Dean’s heart thuds to the tune of <em>Cas. Cas. Cas. Luca killed him. Luca killed Cas</em>.</p><p>And that’s the only thing that matters. The world solidifies into that pinprick of solid, blinding knowledge. Luca killed Cas. Dean’s going to kill Luca or die trying.</p><p>Dean swings himself into the street.</p><p>“Luca?” he screams at the top of his lungs. His voice rebounds off the quiet, stoic buildings that line the street like so many crooked, rotten teeth. Volleys off the graffitied brick walls and cement pillars.</p><p>“Luca, you son of a bitch, come and get me! You hear me, you bastard? Come and get me, too!”</p><p>“Dean!” Someone yells. It might be Victor; Dean’s not sure. He’s somehow made it all the way down to the playground.</p><p>“Come and face me like a man, you spineless piece of shit!” Dean screams.</p><p>Footsteps echo through the dark. Dean turns to meet them. Cas runs out of the shadows. His face is white, and he has to be a ghost, because Cas is dead. But he’s got a messenger bag slung across his shoulder and he’s wearing a tan trench coat that looks a couple sizes too big for him.</p><p>“Cas…?”</p><p>“<em>Ciao</em>, Deano,” Luca says, emerging from behind his brother. Cas whips around, like he hadn’t realized Luca was following him. There’s a gun in Luca’s hand. He’s smiling.</p><p>“<em>Dean, watch out</em>!” Sammy screams from behind Dean.</p><p>A gunshot cracks through the air. Then a second gunshot a split-second later. A puff of smoke, like a cigarette, leaves the barrel of Luca’s gun.</p><p>Luca crumbles to the ground, shock carved into his dark features and glinting eyes. Then, Dean’s knees give out. The back of Dean’s head snaps against the pavement below him. And he’s staring at the sky.</p><p>“Dean!” Sammy and Cas yell as one. Their footsteps pound through the ground under Dean’s head.</p><p>There are stars up there, Dean realizes, staring at the muzzy, dark sky, too clogged with light pollution and smog to see the stars. But the stars are there, anyway; it doesn’t matter if Dean can see them, or not. Just like there are Cas’s open fields of green grass somewhere out there. And ocean waves that breathe in and out across clean shorelines. It’d be nice, Dean thinks, to take Sammy to the beach. To feel sand between his toes. To maybe watch the sunset with Cas.</p><p>“Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean,” Cas whispers frantically, and his fingers are on Dean’s chest, pulling at his shirt. “Look at me. <em>Per favore, guardami</em>.” There are his beautiful blue eyes, widened in panic. And his hair is messy; just like Dean left it in bed. And Dean smiles lazily, a little lopsided because it’s hard to move his mouth.</p><p>“Dean,” Sammy chokes. His face swims above Dean’s eyes, blocking out the hazy blackness of the night sky and the invisible stars.</p><p>Sammy’s holding a gun, too. His hand is white-knuckled and shaking around the grip. </p><p>It clicks into place, somehow. Slides through the dizzy, fuzzy feeling inside Dean’s head, and it makes sense: Sammy running back upstairs into Bobby’s apartment. Bobby’s revolver on the table. The two gunshots. Luca’s look of surprise. Luca hitting the pavement.</p><p>Dammit, Bobby should ‘a stopped him. Should ‘a locked him in the damn cellar.</p><p>“G’ me the gun, S’mmy,” Dean says. He tries to move his arm, but his fingers just scrabble uselessly against the pavement.</p><p>“Dean, no,” Sam whimpers. His eyes swim with tears, and that ain’t right. Sammy ain’t supposed cry. Not when Dean’s still around to do something about it.</p><p>“Gotta…wipe your fingerprints clean…” Dean says. “Gimme the…gun…they’ll think it was me.”</p><p>“Dean, you’ve been shot,” Cas tells Dean seriously.</p><p>Dean smiles again. A laugh gurgles up his throat, but then it chokes him. And that’s when the pain hits.</p><p>It’s like someone drilled through his chest and poured molten lava into the hole. It burns. It fucking burns like fire is consuming him from the inside out. And he’s dying. For a minute, the fear of that fact even eclipses the agony. He gags on it.</p><p>“M sorry…” Dean says.</p><p>“Don’t talk, Dean,” Sammy says.</p><p>“M so sorry –” Dean gasps. His breath saws through his chest, and it hurts. It fucking hurts. He’s crying. He can’t help it. It just hurts.</p><p>“You’re going to be alright, Dean,” Cas tells him. He puts his face near Dean’s. Presses his forehead against Dean’s forehead. His eyes are so close, Dean can’t focus on them. All there is is blue.</p><p>“M sorry,” Dean insists. “I promised we’d get out…promised we’d….”</p><p>“You should not speak,” Castiel tells him. He blinks his beautiful blue eyes, and tears land on Dean’s face.</p><p>“Get…Sammy,” Dean says with difficulty. The agony is his chest whorls outward until it engulfs his entire torso, runs up his chest. Whites out his vision. “Promise you’ll get him out.”</p><p>“We’re not doing fucking last words, Dean,” Sammy says fiercely beside him, and then something presses hard against the gunshot in Dean’s chest, and Dean coughs out a strangled yelp of agony.</p><p>A digging, scratching, pressing pain across his ribs. Inside of his body. Dean wants to pass out. Please, God, let him pass out.</p><p>“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Sammy mutters furiously. There are tears in his voice, now, too. “Gotta put pressure on it, Dean. Gotta stop the bleeding.”</p><p>“Stop,” Dean begs. “God, please stop. <em>Please</em>.”</p><p>“Holy shit,” it’s a third voice, preceded by a smattering of footsteps. “Shut him the hell up! The cops are probably already on their way.”</p><p>“Vic, we gotta get him out of here!” Sammy says.</p><p>“Shh, Dean,” Castiel whispers into Dean’s forehead, gripping Dean’s hand tight in his own. Lips ghosting across Dean’s clammy skin. “You’re going to be alright.  <em>Padre nostro che sei nei cieli,</em>” Cas begins praying, as if by rote. And Dean shuts his eyes, tries to let Cas’s voice wash over him. Sweep through his body and mind. Make it go away. God, make it go away. “<em>Sia santificato il tuo nome</em>.”</p><p>

</p><p>“Who the fuck are you?” Victor demands.</p><p>Sam answers, “I think it’s Castiel Nova. I don’t know – fuck – we gotta get him out of here, Vic.”</p><p>“Right, come on,” Victor directs. And then hands roughly pull Castiel away.</p><p>“Get the fuck off him, Nova –”</p><p>And Dean wants to protest, tries to open his mouth, but all he can do is whimper because holy shit. Holy fucking shit. The fire in his chest burns to an all new intensity, blue-white flames licking through his muscles. <em>Black out</em>, he begs himself. Just fucking back out.</p><p>And then hands dig under his arms, haul him to his feet. The world tilts around him, a topsy-turvy, nausea-inducing tilt-a-whirl like those fucking rides at that fair in the park Dean snuck Sammy into that one summer.</p><p>“You’re hurting him!” Cas hisses.</p><p>And it’s true. Dean’s entire body wrenches with agony, somewhere now between ice-cold and scalding. A high-pitched whine escapes his throat. His head lolls weightlessly until his chin hits his chest. He shuts his eyes because the world keeps spinning spinning spinning fucking spinning.</p><p>“Bobby’s,” Sammy directs, and then they start moving; Dean thinks they start moving. His ankles drag uselessly against the pavement as Victor and Sam drag him forward.</p><p>“C-Cas….” Dean slurs. He wants Cas. There’s something important he has to tell Cas. <em>Promise me, promise me you’ll take Sammy. You’ll get him out. You didn’t get to promise, Cas. Please</em>. But the words are too far out of reach. They tumble pointlessly in the base of his throat. Clog there around the breath that gets caught around each new stab of agony. And Dean drifts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Act Two: Scene Six, End Credits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Balls,” Bobby growls as soon as Sam and Victor manage to drag Dean up the narrow staircase and into Bobby’s living room. “Get him on the bed,” Bobby says, gesturing down the hall and to the door that opens into a crowded and small bedroom.</p>
<p>Sam hasn’t been in Bobby’s bedroom since he was a little kid, when he was still young enough that the idea of Bobby’s bedroom hadn’t yet taken on a strangely intimate and almost mythical milieu. Now, as he and Victor haul Dean atop Bobby’s faded, patched coverlet that’s probably existed since before the Civil War, Sam tries not to look around too much.</p>
<p>He catches sight of Bobby’s cap hanging from the bedpost, a pair of clunky work boots by the closet, which is partially open, allowing flannel shirts and worn-out jackets to spill out. The room smells like Bobby even stronger than the rest of the apartment does: like motor oil, cigar smoke, and old whiskey.</p>
<p>“Help me get his shirt off, Sam,” Bobby barks, pushing past Victor so he can get to Dean’s side. “Sam!”</p>
<p>Sam brings his eyes back to his brother: Dean’s face is pallid and waxy. There are beads of sweat on his hairline and upper lip. And his eyes are closed, but he’s not fully unconscious; instead, he’s writhing weakly on the bed, making small, abortive gasps of pain that are nearly sobs.</p>
<p>“Keep your head on, boy!”</p>
<p>“Right,” Sam says. The gun he used to kill Luca is stuffed into the back of his slacks. He imagines it’s still hot: scalding against his skin. “Right. Sorry, Bobby.”</p>
<p>Bobby grunts in reply and flips out a switchblade from his pocket. His cane is leaning forgotten against the small, cluttered nightstand. He slices a stripe down the center of Dean’s t-shirt. Then he gets a hand under Dean’s shoulder, hauls him into a partial sitting position. Sam grits his teeth when Dean moans in pain. Bobby slides the ruins of Dean’s shirt off one arm and then the other.</p>
<p>Sam’s stomach turns as Bobby peels the fabric away from Dean’s blood-soaked chest, revealing the nearly perfectly round bullet hole beneath, still sluggishly pulsing blood. Sam can see there’s an exit wound on Dean’s back, and it’s been leaking blood, too, so now there’s a puddle of red on Bobby’s quilt.</p>
<p>“Dammit, boy,” Bobby hisses. “You, whoever the fuck you are,” Bobby says to Victor, “Grab me towels!”</p>
<p>Victor darts away, nearly plowing Castiel Nova down in the hallway, who Sam had barely realized had tagged along to Bobby’s apartment. Castiel is staring at Dean with white-faced horror. He looks utterly immobilized by shock.</p>
<p>Anger flares brief and fierce inside Sam’s chest. “What the fuck are you just standing there for?” he shrieks at Castiel, and the other boy jerks in surprise, like he’s just realized there were other people here.</p>
<p>He blinks several times in rapid succession, and then he steps forward. “What am I to do?” he asks, voice unexpectedly steady.</p>
<p>“Get behind him,” Bobby directs curtly. “I can’t tell if it nicked his lung; gotta keep him sitting up to ease his breathing.”</p>
<p>Cas immediately maneuvers around the tight space between Sam and the wall. Then he climbs up on the bed behind Dean and gently pulls Dean toward him so that his weight is supported by Cas’s chest. He snakes an arm around Dean’s uninjured side and lays his hand across Dean’s bloody stomach. He buries his head in Dean’s hair and shuts his eyes. He starts muttering something under his breath, too low for Sam to hear, but the look on his face is so achingly tender and distressed that Sam feels a little like he’s interrupted Castiel and Dean in the middle of kissing.</p>
<p>Even the thought makes Sam want to punch his fist through the drywall.</p>
<p>Victor races back with the towels. Bobby steps out of the way. “Put pressure on both those wounds. Hard. It’s gonna hurt him, but don’t let up. Gotta slow the bleeding. You –” Bobby points to Castiel, and the boy jumps. “Hold him, you hear me?”</p>
<p>“I hear you,” Castiel says faintly, and he licks his lips.</p>
<p>Bobby snatches his cane and stumps as quickly as he can out of the door, probably to get his med kit, but Sam can’t help the swell of panic in his throat, and he bites back the impulse to yell <em>don’t go</em>.</p>
<p>Then Victor presses against Dean’s wounds with a wadded-up towel, and Dean bucks up with a choked scream.</p>
<p>“Fucking <em>shit</em>, Dean,” Victor grates out.</p>
<p>Castiel’s arms lock around Dean’s chest, and he tugs him firmly back against his lap. He wraps himself around Dean, and he puts his lips against Dean’s temple and he’s <em>kissing</em> him. This guy is <em>kissing</em> Sam’s brother.</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Castiel mutters furiously into Dean’s skin. “It’s alright, Dean.”</p>
<p>Dean swats haphazardly at Victor, but Sam grabs his wrists and cinches them tight between his fingers.</p>
<p>“S-stop,” Dean stammers weakly. He thrashes his head against Cas’s torso. “P-please. Fucking stop.”</p>
<p>“Bobby!” Sam calls, because Dean is in pain, and Victor’s eyes are stretched wide in horror, and Castiel has his eyes shut tight.</p>
<p>“I’m back, I’m back,” Bobby grunts and shuffles into the room. “Budge up,” Bobby says to Victor, and whacks him out of the way with his cane.</p>
<p>“Sam, listen –” Victor starts. He looks across Dean’s body to Sam. His face is hesitant and clearly uncomfortable. “I gotta – that’s three guys killed tonight, man.”</p>
<p><em>Three guys. Three guys. Benny and Michael and Luca and Sam killed him. Sam killed Luca</em>.</p>
<p>Sam swallows. He shoves all that crap somewhere into the back of his head where he can look at it later. There isn’t time now. All that matters is that Sam shot Luca to stop Luca from killing Dean, a job that’s only half-finished, and Sam can’t afford to lose his shit.</p>
<p>“I get it,” he says. It burns, but he gets it. Sam’s sticking around because Dean is his big brother, and apparently this Castiel kid is sticking around, too, but Victor’s got a single mom, a single bedroom apartment, and four little sisters to get back to.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Victor says. He doesn’t linger to say anything to Bobby or Castiel, but he pauses briefly in the bedroom doorway. “Listen, anyone comes around asking questions…I got your backs, okay?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Sam says, but he’s already looking back at Dean. Dean’s eyelids flutter; he’s stopped yelling and has drifted into some sort of state between consciousness and a dead faint. Castiel still has his arms around him; he’s tight-lipped and blinking back tears.</p>
<p>Sam looks at Castiel carefully, and his first instinct is disgust, is a fierce growl inside his mind to <em>get your filthy hands off my brother. Greaseball. Ginzo. Wop. Queer.</em> The litany runs on, but then Dean moans, low and desperate, and Castiel brushes his lips against Dean’s forehead, long lashes leaving traces of tears on his cheeks, and Sam thinks he just looks like a person. Just another person.</p>
<p>There’s something strange happening inside Sam’s chest. An unidentifiable emotion that’s one-part anger, one-part fear, and one-part gratitude. Sam doesn’t know who the fuck this Castiel Nova thinks he is, why the fuck Dean nearly got himself killed for him, but he’s oddly glad Castiel’s here, glad that someone other than Sam is holding Dean.  </p>
<p>“Sam, hold this for me,” Bobby says and shoves one of the bloody towels into Sam’s hands. Bobby doesn’t wait to see whether or not Sam’s paying attention; he just starts talking. And Sam remembers hazily that Bobby used to be a medic in Africa before that mortar sent him home. “Bullet probably dragged part of his shirt in with it, so I gotta flush the wound and disinfect it. After that we’ll dress it, okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay, Bobby,” Sam says. His throat is dry. He feels a little faint, so he takes some deep breaths, but that just makes him feel like he’s gonna puke.</p>
<p>Dean looks strangely small and wiry on the bed; a little like when he was a kid.</p>
<p>Bobby does what he said he was going to do. Castiel has to tighten his grip on Dean as Bobby cleans and disinfects Dean’s wound. Sam remembers the sting of iodine on his palms from when Dean cleaned them up two days ago, and his stomach squirms. It takes both him and Castiel to keep Dean propped up for Bobby to do the exit wound.</p>
<p>But by the time Bobby’s packing the bullet hole, Dean’s regressed to simply panting; Sam can see his ribs heave with every desperate pull of air.</p>
<p>Bobby keeps up a steady stream of quiet commentary, almost like he’s talking himself through it rather than Sam. “I think it missed his lung. No bone fragments, so it must ‘a gone under his ribs. If it got his stomach, we’d know.”</p>
<p>Finally, Bobby tapes a square of gauze to each side of the hole and secures the entire thing with a long stripe of bandage wound around Dean’s torso.</p>
<p>“You did okay, kid,” Bobby says. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder, even though Dean’s far too out of it to register his touch. Bobby blinks hard, and Sam realizes that Bobby’s hands, steady when he worked on Dean, have started shaking. “You’re okay.”</p>
<p>Bobby picks up one of the towels and dabs at Dean’s face with a clean corner, wiping away sweat and tears from his warm, pain-flushed skin.</p>
<p>“You are Bobby Singer,” Castiel says hoarsely. He shifts Dean gently from his lap to the pillow, but he stays perched on the bed, one hand still clasped on Dean’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“That’s me,” Bobby grunts. For the first time he seems to realize that Castiel is even there at all. “What’s it to ya’?”</p>
<p>“Dean says you’re a good man,” Castiel says simply.</p>
<p>Bobby covers his surprise by asking gruffly, “And who the hell are you?”</p>
<p>“Castiel Nova,” Castiel replies.</p>
<p>Bobby exchanges a look with Sam, and Sam just shrugs. Now Dean is quiet, Sam’s beginning to feel the ache in his own bones. The strain of his muscles from holding his brother down. And the pain from the earlier fight is sweeping back in, full force. His broken nose throbs, splintering up his skull like it’s opened a fault line through the middle of his forehead. </p>
<p>“The dead Castiel?” Bobby raises an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“I’m not dead,” Castiel says with a hint of surprise.</p>
<p>“No shit,” Bobby snorts. He jerks his chin toward the bedroom door, through which Victor disappeared. “That other kid said there’s three of you dead now. Who’s the other one?”</p>
<p>Castiel swallows. Sam watches as his lips quiver slightly, but his voice is clear and steady as ever when he answers. “Luca. My brother.”</p>
<p>“Shit,” Bobby says. He shuts his eyes. Shakes his head. “Dean kill ‘im?”</p>
<p>“No,” Sam answers. “I did.” Saying it makes it true. Dean taught Sam to shoot a long time ago. Sam must have been about seven. Sam remembers his older brother’s steady, capable hands guiding Sam’s fingers on Dad’s army-issued Colt MKIV. <em>Load clip. Pull slide. Safety off. Safety on</em>. Bobby, himself, taught the two of them how to handle a single-action revolver. They took potshots at cans in Turner’s scrapyard next door.</p>
<p>A cold chill starts in Sam’s chest and bleeds outward until his entire body feels like it’s carved from ice. He remembers his palm slick against the grip, finger sure on the trigger. The kick of the gun’s recoil in his hand. The bullet flew from the muzzle and landed dead-center in Luca’s chest; Sam’s always had good aim. And then there was the surprise in Luca’s eyes as he toppled backward.</p>
<p>“He the one who shot your brother?” Bobby asks.</p>
<p>Sam nods. He can’t speak. There’s something spiny and poisonous trying to claw its way out of his throat.</p>
<p>“You still got the gun?” Bobby continues sternly. </p>
<p>Sam mutely reaches around him and pulls the Colt from the back of his pants. He hands it across the bed to Bobby’s waiting hand. His fingers are trembling. He knows Bobby sees, but he’s glad when the older man doesn’t say anything about it.</p>
<p>“You boys better get cleaned up,” Bobby says curtly. He pushes out the ejector rod and ejects the empty case. He rotates the cylinder until each chamber is empty. Then spins the rod back into place. Puts the revolver on the night table. “You’re both covered in blood.” Bobby nods to Dean on the bed, gray-faced, each breath punctuated by a drawn-out wheeze.</p>
<p>“Will he be alright?” Castiel whispers.</p>
<p>It seems to take a great deal of effort to pull the words out of his throat; Bobby answers, “Can’t do nothing but wait to see if he pulls through. Lost a lot of blood.”</p>
<p>Bobby’s words land hollow in the room. Seem to hang there and echo, echo, echo meaningless inside Sam’s head. A little kid from a long time ago is crying for <em>Dean Dean Dean Dean</em>.</p>
<p>“Get on now,” Bobby says without looking at either Sam or Castiel.</p>
<p>“Kay, Bobby,” Sam whispers. Bobby hates him. Bobby is disgusted by him. Sam killed someone and Bobby – Bobby can’t even look at Sam, anymore.</p>
<p>“And, Sam?” Bobby says. Sam pauses in the doorway. He looks at Bobby’s feet. “This ain’t your fault, boy. The world’s a messed-up place. But it ain’t you who messed it up.”</p>
<p>“Kay, Bobby,” Sam says again, but this time his throat is clogged. He turns out of the bedroom and enters Bobby’s grungy bathroom, with black mold in the corners of the shower and exposed, rusty piping under the sink and toilet tank.</p>
<p>Sam stares at himself in the mirror above the sink. His reflection ripples down the center where the glass is cracked nearly top to bottom, so one side of his face looks larger than the other. And the naked bulb stuck in the ceiling casts a sickly, yellow light, shadowing Sam’s eyes until they look nearly black.</p>
<p>And Sam’s killed a man. He’s sixteen years old, and he’s killed a man.</p>
<p>Sam’s a good kid. He gets good grades. He doesn’t get in trouble in school. He doesn’t toke up. Hell, he hardly ever smokes. He drinks, sure. But fucking <em>everyone</em> drinks. And he’s only had his hand down one girl’s shirt. Hasn’t even gone all the way, yet.</p>
<p>And he’s killed a man. Luca Nova is dead, and it was Sam’s bullet that got him there.</p>
<p>Sam closes his eyes. He feels abruptly and strikingly ill, and he gulps air over the basin for a minute, urging himself not to throw up. Inside his skull, he keeps replaying it: Luca falling backward, startled look in his eyes, dark stain on his chest. Gun shaking in Sam’s hand.</p>
<p><em>Is he in Hell</em>? The thought swings out of left field. Heaven and Hell – Sam doesn’t spend a whole lot of his time thinking about them. They’ve always been abstract concepts: <em>Heaven’s where Mom went. Dad, too, if he got lucky</em>. And, sure, he prays sometimes. When everything feels like it’s just too much. But he’s never been really certain that there’s someone up there listening.</p>
<p>But now Heaven and Hell feel very real and very close. And Sam’s going to Hell. Sam knows it. Because he’s a murderer and murderers go to Hell.</p>
<p>Sam’s fingers shake as he screws open the faucet. He splashes cold water on his face and scratches his skin dry on one of Bobby’s fraying bath towels. Then Sam swallows back the aching nob in his throat, doesn’t give his face another look in the mirror, and heads back out of the bathroom, setting his mind back on Dean, who’s fighting for his next breath through a bullet wound in his chest. Sam can’t waste time on self-pity, not when his big brother needs him. Not when Dean might be –</p>
<p>He steps into the hall, and his eyes immediately fall on Castiel, who’s sitting all hunched over and curled in on himself in the corner of Bobby’s sofa. His owl-like, unblinking eyes turn from the book sitting incongruently in his lap to Sam as soon as he steps out of the bathroom. He must have pulled his book out of the messenger bag he brought with him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Singer says we will know better in the morning,” Castiel says. For a second, Sam wonders who the hell Mr. Singer is until he lands on <em>Bobby</em>. The strangeness jogs Sam out of his panic from a moment before.</p>
<p>“What the hell are you still doing here?” Sam’s voice jumps out of his throat; he doesn’t recall making the decision to speak.</p>
<p>Castiel just blinks. Once twice. Tilts his head slightly to the side like he doesn’t understand English or some shit.</p>
<p>“Why the fuck did you even follow us, huh?” Sam takes a step toward the sofa. He curls his hands into fists. Bites his nails into his palms. And Castiel looks a little bit like Luca; he’s got his same heavy brows and square jaw.</p>
<p>“I needed to make sure your brother was alright,” Castiel says quietly.</p>
<p>Rage. Sure and quick. Rage like he felt when he held a shard of glass to Christian’s throat. Rage like when Sam pinned Anna to the fence.  </p>
<p>“My brother’s not fucking queer,” he tells Castiel, and his voice wobbles. God, he hates himself. And the rage spirals until it points inward, sticks through his gut like a spear. Sam hates himself so much he wants to die.</p>
<p>Castiel just fucking blinks again.</p>
<p>“He’s not,” Sam insists. “He’s fucking not. So you can just get the fuck out.”</p>
<p>There’s a piercing, shrieking pain in Sam’s stomach, and he curls inward. A flicker of concern ebbs across Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel can shove it up his <em>ass</em>, because Sam doesn’t need his damn pity. Doesn’t need his damn help.</p>
<p>“We don’t need you!” Sam screams. He forgets that his brother is half-comatose in the bedroom down the hall. Doesn’t think about the risk of Bobby roaring at him to shut the hell up. “He doesn’t fucking need you, so why don’t you just clear the fuck out? Leave us the hell alone!”</p>
<p>Two sharp thuds. Sam lands on his knees on the dirty, mildew-dusted rug. He wraps his arms tight around his stomach. Bows his forehead to the floor and wails. It’s a desperate, wounded-animal keen, and Sam’s convinced he’s hearing it from somewhere far away because there’s no way it’s coming from his own throat.</p>
<p>Warm, soft hands land on Sam’s shoulders and pull him toward someone’s lap. Deliriously, Sam thinks of Dean. He thinks of years ago when he was just a dumb kid and he’d cry at the drop of a hat – a broken toy, dropped candy bar, kid shoving him on the playground, Dad yelling again – and Dean’d always be there to pull his little brother into his arms. Whisper words of comfort into Sammy’s hair.  </p>
<p>But Sam peaks through his tear-filled eyes and sees the book splayed open on the carpet, where it slid when Castiel got off the sofa, and he knows it’s Castiel holding him, not Dean. Because Dean’s in the bedroom down the hall. And he might be dying. Dean might be fucking dying. Because he got shot in the chest and he lost so much blood. Blood so red and sticky and the fucking smell of it thick in Sam’s nose.</p>
<p>“Let go,” Sam whimpers into Castiel’s shirt, but he doesn’t tug away. Instead, he grabs wildly for something to hold onto and fists his hands tight in the back of Castiel’s jacket. “God, leave him alone. We don’t need you. We don’t fucking need you.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright, Sam,” Castiel says steadily above Sam. He pets Sam’s head hesitantly. His fingers are narrow and precise. “It’s going to be alright.”</p>
<p>Sam screams his grief and fear into Castiel’s stomach; he sobs like a little boy because Castiel doesn’t <em>know</em> that, dammit. He doesn’t fucking know. Dean might be dying. And Castiel doesn’t <em>know</em>.</p>
<p>Slowly, after what feels like hours, Sam cries himself out. At one point, he hears the heavy tread of Bobby’s feet on the floor, but he must decide that Castiel has Sam handled, because the footsteps retreat to the bedroom to watch Dean.</p>
<p>At the end of it, Sam sniffs himself into silence. His throat is raw and wrecked. His eyes are itchy and swollen. He doesn’t really want to look at Castiel, right now, so, instead, he draws slowly away from the other boy’s lap, blows his bloody nose on his sleeve, and his eyes fall on the book again.</p>
<p>The cover is upside down, but he recognizes the title.</p>
<p>“Hemmingway,” he says hoarsely.</p>
<p>Castiel seems to follow Sam’s line of thought, despite the non-sequitur.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Castiel says. He picks the book up and slides backward until his shoulders hit the base of the couch, then he folds his legs against his chest and lays his cheek against his knees. “I enjoy his writing.”</p>
<p>“I read <em>For Whom the Bell Tolls</em> in school,” Sam says. Like he’s talking to some kid in the cafeteria. Not waiting for his brother to die. “You like this one?”</p>
<p>Castiel wrinkles his nose as he considers it. “I do not know,” he answers finally. “Catherine and the baby die. I don’t think I like sad endings.”</p>
<p>Sam swallows. His throat aches. His eyes are heavy. He drags himself over to the sofa, burrows in close to Castiel’s side like he might have done with Dean. Castiel unwinds one arm from around his knees and slings it over Sam’s shoulder, tugs him closer. And Sam lets his head fall against Castiel’s shoulder. His head aches. He is so tired. He shuts his eyes.</p>
<p>“Me neither,” he whispers into the darkness.</p>
<p>Together, all they can do is wait.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Dear Anna,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I apologize that it has taken me so long to write you. I began this letter many times, but I could never find the right words. I have finally decided that I will never find the right words, so you must have these, instead, inadequate as they surely will be.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>First, I am sorry. I do not think I will ever be able to say “I am sorry” remorsefully or earnestly enough to convey to you the true depth of my feeling. I do not expect you to forgive me. I do not even expect you to understand me, but, nevertheless, I want you to know that I am sorry. To you and dear Alfie, both.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It was wrong of me to leave you, especially after the loss of Michael and Luca, but I could not stay. It is a despicable, selfish excuse. But, so help me God, I could not stay.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I hope you are well. I hope Alfie is well. He will have started high school by now. I hope he is staying out of trouble, but he is a Nova, so perhaps that is too much to hope for. I know you are looking after him. You were always the best of us, Anna. The wisest. The steadiest. The most gracious. I do not think I ever told you how much you remind me of Mama.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I understand if you will not write me back. I understand if you do not even read this letter. But I hope you read at least this: I am sorry. I think I will be sorry for the rest of my life.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Second, I have good news. On our way through Pennsylvania, we ran into Gabriel! I told him immediately what happened to Michael and Luca. You know he never got along with our older brothers, but he was very saddened to hear that they were dead. I made him promise he would call you. By now, I hope he has, and this will already be old news. He is healthy and happy. He is working for a candy company, and he loaded us up with chocolate bars and other confections to take on our way; most of it melted in the car before we could eat it, but it was a nice gesture.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It took us nearly four months before we found somewhere to settle down. At first, we just wanted to drive. There is something meditative and liberating about driving on empty roads. Soaring across the country with the windows down.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We stopped at many places. Small diners to eat and novelty roadside attractions. And we slept in cheap motels when we could afford it, in the car when we could not. We worked odd jobs where we could find them: picking peaches in Georgia, building a road in Tennessee, at a railroad in Missouri. And then we drove to see the Grand Canyon. I do not think I have ever seen something so beautiful, raw, and furious – like God had taken two sides of the desert and ripped it apart with brute strength.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But we have been here, now, for five weeks – here being Lebanon, Kansas, a small town surrounded by empty fields and eons of blue sky. I have never seen sky so achingly blue. It folds above us like an overturned bowl. So unending, it makes my chest ache.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We have begun to “batten down the hatches” for a “good honest midwestern winter.” The locals promise that it will be “a doozy.” I am used to New York winters, with their brown slush and bitter, whipping winds through the buildings. I cannot imagine heaps of snow and endless blizzards. The grocer, Mrs. Jody Mills, promised that the plows clear the roads, but I have elected to stock up on jars and canned goods in case we are marooned.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sam was upset about starting school late. He worried that he would be too far behind the other students, but he has caught up to them in record time; I have no doubt he will soon surpass them. He is a junior this year, and he has already begun to talk about college. He is very smart, and he will undoubtedly have his pick of any school he desires.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He has made friends very quickly. I think families were initially wary of the strange, new boy from out of town, but his amiability and generous spirit soon won them over. Most afternoons he spends with some companion or other, most often a very nice and pretty young lady named Jessica. I will coerce her into staying for dinner one of these nights, despite Sam’s embarrassment. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I found work at the library. I only shelve books, but the librarian, Miss Donna, says she will trust me to log checkouts and returns once she knows me better. I think it is a good job for me. You know how dearly I love books. It is peaceful to be around so many words, and I frequently bring novels home with me to read at night. In my free time, I still write. I would like to see if I can get something – just something small, an opinion piece or a review – in the local paper. They pay two cents a word, and it would be good to supplement our income.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sam has read some of my notes, and he says I write more than well enough to get into the local paper, but I don’t know whether or not I believe him, yet. I suppose all that is left now is to gather my courage and do it. Strange, I have seen and done so many horrible things, yet I can still be frightened by something so small and insignificant.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And Dean – I do not suppose you will want to hear much about Dean, but I cannot help but tell you about him, Anna.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Dean is like a new person. He smiles often, laughs freely, and offers himself whole-heartedly in everything he puts his mind to. The clear, open air is good for him. He thrives in empty spaces; I cannot wait until it is finally spring here, and he will be able to live among new, growing things.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He has a job at the garage in town, where he works nine or ten hours a day, six days a week. I think he’s worked too hard, but Dean insists that he’s just being put through the paces because he’s new; his boss, a man called Cain, seems to be a stern but honest man, and Dean will soon prove his worth.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Three young men, one still in school – we make an unusual crew and draw many questions. I tell people I am Dean and Sam's cousin. It makes things simpler. I do not think the locals entirely trust us yet, but it will only take time until we are welcomed here, I feel sure of it. They are a friendly, caring people. Dean already has Mrs. Mills wrapped around his little finger; she invited us to spend Christmas with her husband and little boy. She promised pie, which means Dean immediately agreed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We live in a house just outside of town. It is what the seller, Frank, called “a fixer-upper,” but it has good foundations. Something where we can plant roots and grow. On our days off we all pitch in to help “fixer-up.” We have painted the bedrooms and sitting room, and Dean fixed the stove by hand. We will have to buy a new refrigerator when it gets warmer, but for now the root-cellar will do.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I think I would like to plant a garden in the spring. I have always wanted to have space for a garden. I do not know how to plant things, but the library is filled with good books, and I have already begun to read about it. Dean laughs at me, and tells me I’m too eager, but I can’t help it; it’s so beautiful to have dreams, now.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It is a small house: only two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a closet where we keep the coats. But we will always make room if you and Alfie would like to visit.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Tutto il mio amore,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>- Castiel</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I, too, don't think I like sad endings.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to come say hi on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/foolondahill17">Tumblr</a>, where I repost art, edits, and meta. Or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/foolondahill17/?hl=en">Instagram</a>, where I pretend to be an artist.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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